3  1822  01228  5748 


A     CTTT  T"7t?tl 

A  bLLI  ZfcR 


/     L---- 

UNIVURSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

I        SAN  DIEGO 


3j; 


II  li  in  ii  1  1  1  i  •  . 

P  'I  I      III 

1822  01228  5748 


WEST! 


The  hand   flashed  back  again,  spouting  smoke  and  fire 


WEST! 


BY 
CHARLES  ALDEN  SELTZER 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

W.  M.  ALLISON 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Copyright.  1921,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  Co. 


PRINTED   IN   XT.    S.    A. 


LIST  OP  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  hand  flashed  back  again,  spouting  smoke  and  fire 

Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Twice  the  rider  tentatively  reached  out 28 

He  had  come  at  just  the  right  time 78 

He  met  Brannon's  level  gaze  steadily 188 


WEST! 


WEST! 

CHAPTER  I 

DESPITE  Josephine  Hamilton's  eagerness  to 
end  her  three  days'  journey,  she  was  soothed 
by  the  dead  calm  that  followed  the  stopping  of  the 
train.  The  deep  stillness  was  almost  vacuum-like 
and  with  a  sort  of  strained  resignation  Josephine 
sank  back  among  the  cushions  and  pillows  provided 
by  an  obliging  porter.  She  gazed  with  some  bel 
ligerence  out  of  one  of  the  windows  of  the  compart 
ment  she  occupied. 

Outside  the  window  was  a  dun,  dead  country,  a 
flat  drear  waste,  treeless,  unfeatured.  So  far  as 
she  could  see  there  was  no  horizon.  She  felt 
there  ought  to  be  one,  and  she  tried  to  penetrate 
the  level  distance  in  order  to  vindicate  her  intelli 
gence;  but  at  a  distance  that  appeared  remarkably 
short,  it  seemed  the  dun  land  blended  with  the  brassy 
sky,  creating  a  haze  that  was  very  like  a  gauze  veil. 
Gravely  inspecting  the  phenomenon  she  became 
aware  that  the  veil  appeared  to  be  composed  of  glit 
tering  particles  swimming  lazily  between  earth 


4  WEST ! 

and  sky — dust,  she  supposed,  with  unromantlc 
practicality. 

And  yet  her  eyes  glowed  with  appreciation,  with 
awakening  interest.  For  the  picture  was  one  of 
majestic  beauty.  Since  leaving  New  York  she  had 
seen  nothing  like  it.  So  she  pressed  her  face 
against  the  window-pane  and  stared  hard. 

A  little  later  she  became  aware  of  detached,  dis 
tant  sounds,  muffled  by  the  closed  door  of  the  com 
partment — footsteps,  voices;  a  metallic  clanking  as 
of  some  one  pounding  with  a  hammer ;  the  shrill 
hissing  of  escaping  steam  and  the  banging  of  doors. 

But  she  still  admired  the  gauze  veil.  She 
observed  that  its  colors  slowly  changed;  that  in 
it  were  flaming  golden  streaks  and  prismatic  spots 
that  ebbed  and  flowed  and  merged  and  blended 
with  continuous  movement,  the  colors  so  harmoni 
ous  and  delicate  that  they  might  have  been  etched 
by  the  genius  of  a  master  painter.  It  was  not  until 
she  saw  an  impudent-eyed  man  brazenly  watching 
her  from  the  road-bed  beneath  the  window  of  the 
compartment  that  she  suddenly  decided  she  had 
looked  long  enough.  She  vindictively  drew  the 
shade,  her  eyes  flashing  with  indignation. 

A  little  later,  debating  an  impulse  to  summon  the 
porter  to  inquire  the  reason  for  the  stopping  of  the 
train,  she  stood  before  the  paneled  mirror  tucking 
in  some  stray  wisps  of  hair  from  the  heavy,  dark- 
brown  coils  that  had  been  the  envy  of  her  girl 


WEST !  5 

friends  at  the  Eastern  university  from  which  she 
had  been  graduated  the  year  before. 

It  was  a  strikingly  handsome  face  that  was  re 
flected  in  the  glass,  with  a  chin  that  might  be  con 
sidered  a  trifle  formidable  by  persons  who  did  not 
look  at  her  long  enough  to  yield  to  the  lure  of  the 
lips  above  it,  which  seemed  to  hint  of  lurking  hu 
mor  guarded  by  uncompromising  moral  sense. 
Her  impulses  were  intellectual  rather  than  physical. 

Though  undoubtedly  she  was  aware  of  her 
attractions,  there  was  no  gleam  of  vanity  in  the 
clear,  direct,  expressive  eyes  that  calmly  returned 
her  gaze  from  the  glass.  It  seemed  as  though  she 
had  no  delusions  regarding  mere  physical  beauty. 
Her  probing  eyes  went  deeper,  seeking  the  character 
that  animates  the  flesh. 

After  an  instant  she  turned  again  to  the  window. 
The  impudent-eyed  man  had  gone.  She  lifted  the 
shade,  and  again  studied  the  varicolored  gauze  veil 
which  seemed  suspended  between  the  train  and  the 
remote  horizon. 

She  saw  passengers  walking  past  the  window — 
men  and  women.  They  were  going  toward  the 
rear  of  the  train;  some  were  talking  and  laughing; 
she  observed  that  all  seemed  eager.  One  man, 
hurrying  past  the  window,  was  removing  a  white, 
starched  collar.  He  jammed  the  collar  into  a  pocket 
of  his  coat  and  mopped  the  perspiration  from  his 
face  with  an  already  moist  handkerchief. 


6  WEST ! 

Sight  of  the  man  brought  into  Josephine's  mind 
the  realization,  that  the  compartment  was  hot.  She 
swung  the  door  open  just  in  time  to  meet  the  gaze 
of  two  men  who  were  hurrying  down  the  passage 
way,  laughing  and  talking.  Their  eyes  were  eager; 
they  were  boyishly,  frankly  interested  in  the  thing 
that  was  sending  them  hurrying  down  the  passage 
way. 

"Cow-boys,"  she  heard  one  of  them  say  as  he 
passed  the  door  of  her  compartment.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  he  had  directed  his  words  to  her  with 
the  impersonal  insinuation  that  he  had  discovered 
something  in  which  she  might  be  interested. 

Was  she  interested  in  cow-boys?  She  hardly 
knew.  She  supposed,  of  course,  that  she  would  see 
many  cow-boys  when  she  arrived  at  Betty  Lawson's 
ranch — which  would  be  at  her  journey's  end,  and 
which,  according  to  the  impression  she  had  gained 
from  reading  Betty's  letters,  was  somewhere  in  the 
virgin  wilderness  beyond  Willets,  the  last  station 
on  her  railroad  ticket.  But  she  did  n't  know 
whether  she  was  interested  enough — 

"You  don't  suppose  they  really  mean  to  hang 
him?"  floated  to  her  ears  down  the  passageway  in 
the  voice  that  had  spoken  before.  "It  does  n't 
seem — " 

The  voice  was  cut  off  by  the  closing  of  a  door, 
but  the  significance  of  the  man's  words  tortured 


WEST !  7 

Josephine,  brought  her  body  to  a  rigid  pose  in 
the  doorway. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  there,  astonished, 
•undecided,  mentally  repeating  the  man's  words: 
"cow-boys"  and  "hang."  She  found  them  con 
vincing,  for  one  seemed  to  be  somehow  associated 
with  the  other;  and  she  remembered  that  in  one 
of  Betty's  letters  there  had  been  reference  to  a 
lynching,  although  she  could  n't  clearly  remember 
just  why  Betty  had  mentioned  it.  However,  the 
reading  had  given  her  something  of  a  shock,  even 
though  she  had  known  that  such  things  as  lynch- 
ings  had  occurred  in  the  West.  The  difference  was 
that  coming  direct  from  Betty  the  word  seemed 
to  have  a  closer  and  more  tragic  meaning  than  when 
it  had  appeared  in  the  brief  telegraphic  reports  of 
the  newspapers. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  such  a  thing  was  per 
mitted  to  happen  in  America,  that  there  was  a 
possibility  of  its  happening  right  now,  close  to 
her.  And  yet  when  she  reflected  upon  the  grim 
aspect  of  the  country  through  which  the  train  had 
been  passing  for  the  last  day  or  so,  when  she  con 
sidered  the  vast  distances  that  separated  one  town 
from  another,  and  the  futile  appearance  of  the  towns 
themselves,  it  was  apparent  that  much  could  happen 
of  which  the  recognized  law  could  have  no  knowl 
edge. 


8  WEST! 

She  was  aware  of  a  new  silence,  which  was  deeper 
and  somehow  more  solemn  than  that  which  had 
followed  the  stopping  of  the  train  a  few  minutes 
ago.  The  stillness  in  the  car  seemed  to  have  become 
strangely  premonitory,  like  that  which  precedes 
tragedy  imminent  and  expected.  And  now  she  knew 
what  had  been  meant  by  the  spectacle  of  the  pas 
sengers  hurrying  toward  the  rear  of  the  train. 

She  put  on  the  felt  hat  Betty  Lawson  had  advised 
her  to  bring,  got  into  a  light  traveling-coat,  slammed 
the  door  of  the  compartment,  and  hurried  down  the 
passageway. 

It  seemed  she  was  the  last  passenger  to  leave 
the  train,  for  no  one  followed  her  and  an  engulfing 
silence  marked  her  movements  as  she  stepped  from 
the  car  to  the  road-bed.  Beset  with  a  strange 
eagerness,  which  was  founded  upon  a  dread  curios 
ity  and  a  reluctance  to  become  an  outsider  in  what 
was  transpiring,  she  hurried  toward  the  rear  of  the 
train,  where  she  saw  the  other  passengers  con 
gregating. 

None  seemed  to  notice  her  as  she  joined  the 
the  group,  and  so  she  slipped  into  a  convenient  space 
and  edged  forward  until  she  was  able  to  see  what 
object  had  intrigued  the  interest  of  the  other  pas 
sengers. 

There  were  many  objects  of  interest.  Seven,  to 
be  exact.  Of  the  seven,  six  were  cow-boys.  There 
could  be*  no  doubt  of  that.  For  though  Josephine 


WEST !  9 

had  never  seen  a  cow-boy  until  that  instant  she 
felt  she  could  not  be  mistaken. 

They  were  grouped  on  a  little  level  beside  the 
railroad  track,  not  more  than  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
from  the  rear  coach  of  the  train;  and  it  was  evident 
they  had  been'  there  before  the  train  had  stopped, 
for  Josephine  saw  the  dying  embers  of  a  fire  with 
some  white  smoke  curling  lazily  upward  from  it. 
Scattered  about  were  saddles-  and-  blankets.  At  a 
little  distance  were  several  horses,  grazing  upon  some 
green-brown  grass. 

To  Josephine  the  saddles,  blankets,  and  horses 
were  insignificant  details.  She  saw  them,  but  her 
interest  had  settled  definitely  and  completely  up 
on  the  cow-boys,  for  they  were  to  be  the  chief 
figures  in  the  dread  drama  she  had  been  visualizing 
from  the  instant  she  had  overheard  the  two  men  in 
the  passageway  talking,  about  them. 

She  watched  them  eagerly,  intently,  with  level  dis 
approval,  with  unmistakable  antagonism,  with  a 
dislike  that  was  positively  vicious. 

A  woman  standing  close  to  her  spoke  to  a  big 
man  who  wore  a  soft  brown  coat,  traveling-cap, 
crinkled  trousers,  and  slippers — a  man  with  a  fat, 
smooth  face  and  with  cynical,  self-sufficient  eyes, 
whose  thick  lips  were  caressing  an  obese  cigar. 

"Aren't  they  romantic?"  she  remarked. 

"H'm'm,"  grunted  the  man,  doubtfully;  "we-ell — 
mebbe.  That  depends." 


io  WEST! 

Josephine  did  not  listen  to  his  dissertation  up 
on  what  "depended."  She  thought  the  cow-boys 
looked  positively  vicious.  She  had  little  expectation 
that  romance  could  masquerade  in  the  dark  muzzles 
of  the  pistols  that  sagged  from  the  low-swung 
holsters;  that  the  bold,  reckless  faces  of  the  men 
concealed  the  sort  of  character  suggested  by  the  re 
mark  of  the  woman  who  had  spoken. 

For  Josephine  was  entertaining  a  prejudice.  The 
words  of  the  man  in  the  passageway,  "you  don't 
suppose  they  really  mean  to  hang  him?"  had  pre 
supposed  a  situation  that  was  directly  at  variance 
with  principles  by  which  she  had  been  governed  all 
her  days — principles  which  frowned  upon  mob- 
violence.  And  any  hanging  not  legally  performed 
must,  of  necessity,  be  unlawful. 

Josephine  was  convinced  that  this  hanging  was 
to  be  unlawful.  She  had  no  doubt  there  was  to  be 
a  hanging ;  for  while  the  big  man  in  the  brown  coat 
talked,  Josephine's  eyes  had  sought  out  the  probable 
victim. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  little  hummock  behind  the 
cow-boys.  He  was  hatless,  coatless.  His  hair  was 
disheveled ;  there  was  a  gash  on  his  forehead  where 
the  blood  had  dried.  His  face  was  dirty,  and  a 
stubble  beard  made  him  look  villainous.  His  hands 
were  tied  behind  him :  and  though  he  sneered  malev 
olently  under  the  scrutiny  of  the  group  of  passen 
gers,  Josephine's  sympathy  for  him  was  real  and 


WEST!  ii 

acute.  She  was  sure  he  could  not  be  over  twenty — 
twenty-five,  perhaps.  Certainly  not  older.  And  to 
be  facing  that  kind  of  a  death!  And  innocent,  per 
haps  !  Who  were  these  men  that  they  dared  to 
judge  him — to  condemn  him,  without  due  process 
of  law? 

She  had  been  staring  at  the  cow-boys  collectively. 
Now,  aroused,  she  began  to  examine  them  indi 
vidually,  with  malice  that  precluded  any  possibility 
of  favorable  judgment. 

Four  of  the  cow-boys  were  distinctly  and  undeni 
ably  resentful  and  embarrassed  over  the  scrutiny 
to  which  they  were  subjected  by  the  passengers; 
for  the  latter  were  very  plainly  betraying  an  eager 
interest  which  said,  wordlessly,  that  cow-boys  were 
curiosities  to  be  placed  in  the  category  of  oddities 
along  with  Indians,  mountains,  deserts,  rattlesnakes, 
scorpions,  horned  toads,  and  other  features  of  the 
country — later  to  be  dragged  forth  by  memory  and 
exhibited  as  "specimens." 

The  four  tried  to  conceal  their  resentment.  They 
regarded  the  assembled  passengers  with  thinly  dis 
guised  disapprobation,  and  with  ironic  smiles  so 
shallow  that  the  embarrassment  beneath  was  visible. 
Josephine  quickly  decided  the  four  were  negligible, 
despite  their  bold,  bronzed  faces  and  their  remark 
ably  steady  eyes — and  the  huge  pistols  at  their  hips. 
Save  that  the  environment  was  different,  they  were 
merely  young  men  who  hired  out  their  bodies  as 


12  WEST! 

did  certain  young  men  of  the  East — farm  hands  for 
example.  They  did  as  they  were  told. 

It  did  not  take  Josephine  long  to  single  out  the 
brain  of  the  cow-boy  group — the  man  who  pos 
sessed  qualities  of  leadership  which  would  logically 
make  him  the  guiding  spirit. 

He  sat  on  a  fiat  rock  at  a  slight  distance  from 
the  others.  He  was  leaning  slightly  forward,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  fingers  locked.  His  big 
felt  hat  was  pushed  back  from  his  forehead,  and 
his  eyes,  as  he  watched  the  passengers,  were  steady, 
unembarrassed,  glowing  with  lazy  good  humor 
which  had  a  trace  of  amused  contempt  in  it. 

He  was  tall,  booted,  bepistoled.  The  boots  were 
dusty,  the  soft  tops  much  scuffed.  The  chaps  that 
covered  his  long  legs  were  worn  and  scarred.  The 
gray  woolen  shirt  he  wore  had  long  sleeves  which 
were  buttoned  tightly  at  the  wrists.  The  garment 
was  worn  loosely  at  the  throat,  where  a  blue  necker 
chief  sagged. 

However,  it  was  not  the  man's  appearance  that 
held  Josephine's  interest,  though  she  grudgingly 
admitted  he  was  good-looking.  It  was  something 
else — a  singular  confidence  and  ease  that  radiated 
from  him,  which  lurked  all  over  him,  as  though  he 
was  conscious  of  power  and  authority  which  would 
be  expressed  whenever  he  felt  disposed  to  express 
them. 

Such  was  Josephine's  first  estimate  of  him.     The 


WEST!  13 

estimate  persisted  until,  with  the  collective  gaze 
of  the  passengers  upon  him,  she  saw  his  eyes  nar 
row  slightly,  to  glow  with  saturnine  humor.  And 
then  she  was  convinced  that  lurking  behind  his  con 
sciousness  of  power  and  authority  was  a  malicious 
devil. 

Josephine  hated  him.  As  his  slow  gaze  swept 
the  passengers  and  paused  for  an  infinitesimal  space 
upon  her,  she  stiffened,  frowned.  If  he  was  aware 
of  the  frown  he  gave  no  sign;  his  gaze  swept  slowly 
on. 

"There  's  a  character,"  Josephine  heard  the  big 
man  in  the  brown  coat  whisper  to  the  woman  beside 
him.  "You  '11  notice  all  the  others  are  a  little  up 
set  because  we  have  interrupted  their  fun.  But 
not  him!  That  guy  is  smooth  and  easy  and  deep; 
nothing  disturbs  him.  By  George !  I  'd  hate  to 
cross  him!" 

Josephine  felt  a  sudden  contempt  for  the  big  man, 
for  his  inability  correctly  to  judge  a  member  of  his 
own  sex.  Did  n't  the  big  man  know  that  the 
other  was  merely  a  bloodthirsty  bully  who  at  this 
instant  was  posing  and  enjoying  the  situation  in 
which  he  found  himself,  which  gave  him  a  chance 
to  parade  his  power  over  the  poor  wretch  he  and 
his  men  intended  to  hang. 

There  were  many  passengers.  They  had  spread, 
fanwise,  from  the  rear  coach  to  a  point  some  yards 
down  the  right  of  way,  in  a  line  that  was  irregular 


14  WEST! 

and  noticeably  concaved  immediately  in  front  of  the 
group  of  cow-boys — a  discreet,  though  perhaps  acci 
dental  formation. 

It  was  hot:  the  cindered  right  of  way  exuded  sti 
fling  heat-waves ;  many  of  the  passengers  were  mop 
ping  their  faces  with  handkerchiefs. 

Josephine  was  not  warm.  A  cold  rage  had 
seized  her — an  indignation  that  took  no  account 
of  physical  discomfort;  an  indignation  aroused  over 
the  spectacle  of  the  passengers  dumbly  submitting 
to  the  horror  that  was  about  to  be  enacted,  that  cer 
tainly  would  be  not  long  deferred  after  the  depar 
ture  of  the  train.  There  were  perhaps  a  hundred 
male  passengers,  and  not  one  of  them  seemed  to  have 
the  courage  to  interfere. 

She  moved  forward  slightly,  aware  that  the  in 
stant  she  spoke  she  would  become  badly  conspicuous, 
like  an  orator  alone  on  a  rostrum.  Also  she  was 
certain  she  would  expose  herself  to  criticism,  per 
haps  to  ridicule.  But  she  was  determined  to  in 
terfere. 

However,  in  the  act  of  opening  her  lips  to  speak, 
she  heard  a  voice : 

"Our  fire  has  gone  out,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
You  see  we  did  n't  expect  company  for  breakfast, 
or  we  'd  have  kept  her  humming.  But  mostly  the 
grub  has  played  out,  anyway.  You  're  all  looking 
mighty  hungry!  Don't  the  trains  carry  grub  any 
more  ?" 


WEST!  15 

It  was  a  subtle  speech.  The  passengers  were 
hungry — for  adventure;  for  anything  that  would 
break  the  monotony  of  continuous,  tiresome  travel. 
And  their  faces  reflected  their  appreciation  of  the 
strangeness  of  the  present  spectacle  and  of  the  gentle 
ness  of  the  man's  voice,  where  they  had  expected 
harshness  for  their  rather  impertinent  curiosity. 

Yes;  the  speaker  was  the  man  who  sat  on  the 
rock,  the  cow-boy  leader.  His  voice  had  been  low 
and  gravely  quizzical,  with  a  trace  of  mocking 
laughter  in  it.  And  his  eyes  were  gleaming. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?"  whispered  the  big  man  in 
the  brown  coat.  "He  's  deep,  that  guy.  He  's  got 
brains !" 

It  was  the  big  man  who  answered.  The  other 
passengers  variously  expressed  their  delight  over 
the  cow-boy's  speech — chuckling,  whispering,  nod 
ding  their  heads.  But  the  man  in  the  brown  coat 
spoke  directly  to  the  cow-boy. 

"Trains  don't  carry  the  sort  of  grub  we  're  see 
ing  right  now !"  he  declared. 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  grinning  widely  and  shov 
ing  his  hat  farther  back  on  his  forehead,  revealing 
a  shock  of  glossy  black  hair,  "the  boys  would  n't 
make  very  good  eating  right  now,  straight  or  scram 
bled.  Some  of  them  would  be  rank  poison,  because 
they  're  feeling  some  disturbed  over  having  so  many 
hungry  folks  looking  at  them  at  the  same  time." 

"That  ought  to  settle  it,"  laughed  the  big  man. 


16  WEST! 

"That  makes  it  pretty  plain.  Speaking  for  myself, 
I  beg  your  pardon." 

"You  're  welcome,"  said  the  other  gently.  He 
fixed  the  other  passengers  with  a  narrowing,  gleam 
ing  eye;  and  a  faint  smile  reached  his  lips  as  he 
noted  a  shuffling  movement,  preparatory  to  a  retreat. 

But  though  Josephine  had  been  aware  of  the 
underplay  of  the  cow-boy's  words,  inviting  the  pas 
sengers  to  feast  their  eyes  upon  objects  less  personal, 
she  had  no  intention  of  retreating — at  least,  not 
until  she  made  an  effort  to  save  the  life  of  the 
wretch  who  sat  behind  the  black-haired  man. 

She  stepped  out  of  the  press,  and  was  instantly 
aware  that  the  action  drew  upon  her  the  collec 
tively  curious  gaze  of  the  other  passengers — and 
also  the  steady,  inquiring  scrutiny  of  the  black- 
haired  cow-boy. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  man?" 
she  demanded,  pointing  to  the  captive,  who  curled 
his  upper  lip  at  her  question. 

"Meaning  Les  Artwell,  I  reckon?"  said  the 
black-haired  man,  slowly.  "So  that 's  what 
brought  you  all  swarming  around  us,  eh?  Well, 
you  7ve  guessed  it.  We  're  going  to  hang  him, 
ma'am." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  black-haired  man's  voice  was  gentle. 
But  it  seemed  to  Josephine  that  the  gentle 
ness  was  entirely  surface,  that  underlying  it  was  a 
steel-line  inflexibility  that  hinted  of  the  hopelessness 
of  interference  on  her  part. 

Instead  of  being  dismayed,  however,  Josephine 
was  conscious  of  a  strange  antagonism  and  a  bitter 
resentment  which  were  entirely  personal  and  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  principles;  least  of  all 
the  principles  that  had  impelled  her  to  interfere. 

Josephine  had  completely  forgotten  that  she  had 
set  out  to  prevent  the  hanging  because  it  seemed  un 
authorized  and  illegal.  She  was  now  merely  pas 
sionately  resentful  of  the  unyielding  quality  she  had 
discovered  in  the  voice  of  the  black-haired  man. 
She  wanted  to  shake  him!  She  yearned  to  march 
past  him  and  release  the  prisoner.  She  wanted  to 
show  him  that  he  could  not  do  as  he  pleased,  even 
though  there  was  no  law  within  hundreds  of  miles! 

But  she  did  not  yield  to  those  savage,  primitive 
impulses.  And  she  knew  the  deterring  influence 
was  to  be  found  in  the  eyes  of  the  black-haired  man. 
Somehow  the  eyes  chilled  her,  persuaded  her  from 
testing  the  texture  of  the  steel  underlying  his  sur- 

17 


i8  WEST! 

face  gentleness.  She  felt  that  if  she  attempted  any 
of  the  primitive  methods  she  contemplated  she 
would  be  defeated.  And  she  could  not  endure 
defeat  before  all  the  passengers. 

She  saw  something  else  in  the  eyes  of  the  black- 
haired  man — frank,  bold  admiration.  More,  the 
admiration,  strangely,  seemed  articulate;  it  seemed 
to  express  the  conviction  that  she  was  a  very  brave 
young  woman  thus  to  stand  out  from  the  crowd  to 
take  the  prisoner's  part.  The  others  had  not  had  the 
courage ! 

But  also  there  was  mockery  in  the  admiration. 
Her  bravery  was  to  be  futile.  For  all  the  good  her 
interference  would  do  she  might  as  well  get  back  on 
the  train  and  go  her  way. 

She  saw  that  in  his  eyes.  Well,  she  would  n't  go ! 
The  black-haired  man  could  n't  bully  her  with  his 
steel-like  gentleness.  Nor  could  his  bold  admira 
tion  dissuade  her  from  her  determination  to  save  a 
life.  She  would  not  permit  him  to  draw  the  mask 
of  comedy  over  tragedy ! 

Her  divination  of  the  steel-like  quality  of  his 
character  had  warned  her  that  she  must  use  her  wits 
against  him;  she  could  not  hope  to  beat  him  in  a 
direct  clash.  That  would  mean  defeat  and  humili 
ation,  to  her. 

"What  has  the  man  done?" 

She  spoke  calmly.     She  exulted  in  her  self -con- 


WEST!  19 

trol,  congratulating  herself  that  she  had  not  spoken 
while  her  passions  had  been  ruling  her. 

"He  stole  a  horse,  ma'am." 

"And  you  intend  to  hang  him  for  that?" 

"That 's  the  intention." 

"Whose  intention?" 

"Why  mine,  ma'am — all  of  us.  That 's  the  law. 
We  caught  him  with  the  goods." 

"Meaning  that  you  caught  him  in  the  act?" 

"That 's  it." 

"Who  made  that  law?" 

"I  don't  know  that  anybody  made  it.  I  reckon 
it  was  established  by  custom.  We  can't  all  ride  on 
trains,  ma'am,  and  there's  times  in  this  country 
when  a  man's  life  depends  on  his  having  a  horse. 
This  is  a  big  country  to  walk  through." 

"But  there  are  other  horses.  This  man  did  n't 
steal  them  all." 

"That  is  n't  the  question.  He  stole  one.  He 
was  caught  riding  it." 

"When  did  you  catch  him?" 

"Last  night." 

"Here?" 

"A  couple  of  miles  north." 

"Why  did  you  bring  him  here?" 

"This  section  is  sort  of  shy  on  trees,  ma'am. 
We  figured  on  using  a  telegraph  pole." 

Josephine    shuddered.     She    felt    a    tremor    run 


20  WEST! 

through  the  crowd  around  her.  The  other  passen 
gers  were  close  to  her  now,  having  moved  forward 
while  she  had  been  talking.  When  she  became 
aware  of  the  concerted  movement,  which  seemed 
like  a  collective  shrinking  over  the  dread  object 
visualized  by  all  of  them  at  the  words  of  the  black- 
haired  man,  Josephine  also  became  aware  that  the 
passengers  had  entirely  surrounded  the  black-haired 
man  and  herself,  that  necks  were  craning  toward 
her,  and  that  the  owners  of  the  necks  were  eager- 
eyed  and  tense  for  more  of  the  conversation.  Per 
haps  in  the  minds  of  all  of  them  had  been  a  reluc 
tance  to  permit  the  hanging,  and  they  were  paying 
her  the  tribute  of  their  eager  attention  because  she 
was  doing  a  thing  they  had  not  had  the  courage  to  do. 

"Why  don't  you  take  him  on  to  the  next  town 
and  turn  him  over  to  the  law?"  she  asked. 

She  noted  that  the  four  cow-boys  who  had  be 
trayed  embarrassment  at  the  stares  of  the  passengers 
were  now  a  part  of  the  group  that  surrounded  her 
and  the  black-haired  man,  that  their  embarrassment 
had  vanished,  and  they  appeared  to  be  keenly  amused 
by  the  questioning.  It  seemed  they  were  relieved 
that  they  were  no  longer  considered,  that  the  black- 
haired  man  had  been  singled  out  for  whatever  in 
terference  was  to  come. 

They  were  plainly  enjoying  the  situation.  Their 
bold  bronze  faces  were  animated  with  keen  ap- 


WEST!  21 

preciation;  their  extravagant  winks  at  one  another 
betrayed  them. 

"There's  no  law  nearer  than  Laskar,"  said  the 
black-haired  man.  "That's  beyond  Willets,  and  too 
much  trouble.  Besides,  they  'd  play  politics  with 
him  and  he  'd  get  off.  And  we  'd  get  laughed  at 
for  our  trouble." 

"Trouble !     But  you  have  no  right  to  hang  him !" 

"I  reckon  you  're  green  to  this  country,  ma'am. 
Les  Artwell  is  a  horse-thief.  We  Ve  got  a  way 
of  dealing  with  horse-thieves.  Maybe  it  is  n't  your 
way.  We  won't  argue  about  that.  But  you 
must  n't  come  out  here  and  get  the  idea  that  you  can 
run  this  country  to  suit  yourself;  because  the 
country  's  been  here  a  considerable  spell,  and  folks 
who  live  here  are  not  asking  any  advice." 

Josephine's  cheeks  paled  with  rage  at  the  re 
buff.  He  saw  the  scornful  contempt  in  her  eyes, 
and  his  own  glinted  with  a  steady,  amused  tolerance 
— an  expression  he  might  have  used  to  rebuke  a 
child  too  insistently  curious. 

At  this  instant  the  big  man  in  the  brown  coat 
created  a  diversion.  And  the  black-haired  man's 
gaze  left  Josephine. 

The  man  in  the  brown  coat  was  talking.  Jose 
phine  did  not  hear  him,  for  a  whispering  voice  at 
her  shoulder  swayed  her  interest  sharply  in  that 
direction. 


22  WEST! 

"Sort  of  swelled,  eh?"  said  the  voice. 

She  started,  would  have  turned. 

"Don't  look  around,"  said  the  voice;  "he'll  get 
wise.  I  'm  straw-boss,  under  him.  You  're 
dead  right;  he  ought  to  let  Artwell  go.  He  ain't 
guilty.  He  had  a  bill  of  sale  for  that  hoss.  But  he 
lost  it.  If  you  think  we  could  get  Artwell  on  the 
train  I  could  manage  to  cut  his  hands  free." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  into  the  man's 
face.  He  was  one  who  had  kept  himself  apart 
from  the  others.  During  the  time  the  other  men 
had  been  enduring  the  stares  of  the  passengers  this 
man  had  kept  his  back  to  them,  seemingly  in  the 
grip  of  a  perverse  passion.  Twice  since  she  had 
joined  the  group  Josephine  had  caught  glimpses  of 
his  profile,  to  see  a  sneer  on  his  lips. 

Then  the  sneers  had  had  no  significance;  now  it 
was  apparent  they  reflected  his  attitude  toward  the 
black-haired  man. 

The  self-styled  "straw-boss"  was  darkly  hand 
some.  Perhaps  his  black  eyes  were  a  little  too  in 
sinuatingly  friendly,  presupposing  her  readiness 
to  league  herself  with  him  in  an  effort  to  free  the 
prisoner;  and  his  manner  might  have  been  a  trifle 
too  ingratiating,  and  his  voice  too  smooth.  Yet 
Josephine  responded  quickly  to  his  startling  sug 
gestion. 

"If  you  can  get  him  on  the  train  I  '11  take  care 
of  him,"  she  whispered. 


WEST !  23 

A  pulse  of  vindicative  triumph  shot  through  her. 
She  moved  backward  out  of  the  crowd,  while  the 
man  in  the  brown  coat  continued  to  talk. 

Some  of  the  passengers  glanced  at  her  as  she 
moved;  many  sympathetically,  as  though  they 
would  help  her  gracefully  to  accept  defeat;  others 
watched  her  derisively.  But  almost  instantly  they 
turned  their  attention  to  the  big  man  in  the  brown 
coat. 

Apparently  the  cow-boy  leader  did  not  observe 
her  withdrawal.  He  was  still  talking  to  the  man 
in  the  brown  coat ;  and  the  four  cow-boys  who  had 
mingled  with  the  crowd  were  still  interestedly 
listening  and  grinning. 

Josephine  walked  slowly  to  the  rear  coach  of 
the  train.  Mounting  the  lower  step  she  had  to 
lean  outward  to  see  the  cow-boy  group  and  the 
passengers,  for  they  were  almost  opposite  the  front 
of  the  coach  ahead  of  the  one  upon  whose  steps 
she  was  standing.  The  rear  coach,  and  part  of 
the  other,  would  have  to  pass  the  group  on  its  way 
westward. 

Josephine  saw  the  straw-boss  move  with  apparent 
carelessness  toward  the  prisoner.  She  noted  that  he 
seemed  to  speak  casually  to  the  other;  and  then 
she  caught  the  gleam  of  a  knife  that,  she  felt,  was 
cutting  the  prisoner's  bonds. 

Outwardly  Josephine  betrayed  no  sign  that  she 
was  engaged  in  a  plot  to  save  the  life  of  a  fellow- 


24  WEST ! 

being.  Her  lips  were  a  trifle  grim  and  her  cheeks 
whiter  than  usual,  and  her  hands  trembled  slightly 
as  she  gripped  the  iron  railing  of  the  platform. 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh.  Simultaneously  there  came 
a  prolonged  shriek  of  the  locomotive-whistle, 
'followed  by  several  sharp  blasts,  which  she  knew 
was  an  announcement  that  the  train  was  about  to 
proceed.  She  had  not  heard  why  the  train  had 
stopped  in  the  first  place,  though  she  had  supposed, 
basing  her  thought  upon  the  metallic  hammering, 
that  some  minor  accident  had  occurred.  Whatever 
the  cause,  the  train  was  now  ready  to  proceed. 

She  saw  the  crowd  break  up.  The  passengers 
began  to  scatter  to  front  and  rear,  urged  by  several 
impatient  blasts  of  the  whistle.  She  heard  the  voice 
of  a  trainman  exhorting  the  passengers  to  hurry. 
Some  of  the  passengers  swarmed  past  her  into  the 
rear  coach;  but  she  held  her  place  on  the  steps, 
grimly  determined  not  to  leave  it. 

Some  of  the  passengers  recognized  her  and  gave 
her  admiring  grins.  Some  of  the  women  passengers 
were  not  so  charitable. 

However,  Josephine  was  too  excited  to  observe 
expressions  carefully.  She  drew  a  breath  of  relief 
when  the  passengers  had  all  crowded  past  her;  for 
she  could  see  that  the  cow-boys  had  not  noticed 
that  the  straw-boss  had  liberated  the  prisoner,  or 
that  the  prisoner  was  ready  to  make  a  dash  for  the 


WEST!  25 

train.  The  straw-boss,  she  saw,  was  standing  near 
the  cow-boy  leader. 

The  cow-boys  stood  facing  the  coach  ahead  of 
Josephine.  The  four  bold-faced  men  were  grinning 
broadly  and  talking  to  one  another;  the  cow-boy 
leader  was  again  sitting  on  the  boulder,  staring 
meditatively  downward. 

There  was  another  startling  blast  from  the  whistle, 
a  series  of  preliminary  bumps  and  jerks,  and  the 
train  began  to  move. 

Josephine  drew  a  slow,  deep  quivering  breath  of 
dread  anticipation.  Would  the  prisoner  seize  this 
opportunity?  Would  the  cow-boys  shoot? 

The  answer  to  these  questions  came  almost  in 
stantly.  The  train  was  gliding  past  the  cow-boy 
group  when  she  saw  the  prisoner  plunge  forward, 
hurl  himself  past  the  cow-boys,  and  leap  toward  her. 

As  he  swung  upward,  past  her,  she  turned  her 
back  to  the  cow-boys,  to  shield  the  prisoner.  The 
cow-boys  would  not  dare  to  shoot  her! 

She  glanced  sidelong  at  them,  to  see  that  the 
cow-boys  were  in  motion.  The  straw-boss  had 
evidently  awkwardly  attempted  to  get  out  of  the 
leader's  way  when  the  latter  had  noticed  the  prison 
er's  escape ;  for  both  men  had  fallen  and  the  leader 
was  just  getting  up  as  Josephine's  glance  rested 
on  him.  The  prisoner  was  already  safely  inside 
the  car. 


26  WEST ! 

By  the  time  Josephine  clambered  to  the  platform 
the  cow-boy  leader  was  running  toward  his  horse, 
his  long  legs  making  giant  strides. 

Her  enjoyment  of  the  spectacle  was  vindictive. 

"He  '11  need  seven-league  boots  to  catch  us,  now!" 
she  found  herself  saying.  For  the  train  had  gath 
ered  speed  rapidly;  already  the  cow-boys  were  far 
behind. 

Then  she  heard  a  commotion  behind  her.  She 
wheeled,  to  face  the  prisoner,  a  captive  in  the  grip 
of  a  giant  negro  porter. 

"Don't  make  no  diffrunce  a-tall !"  the  porter 
said.  "You  goin'  to  git  off  this  hyeh  train  right 
now !  You  'm  that  hoss-thief  them  boys  caught. 
If  you  don't  git  off  peaceable  I  '11  bust  you  in  the 
eye!" 

"Porter!" 

Josephine  was  at  the  other's  side  in  an  instant, 
whispering  excitedly.  "I  '11  pay  his  fare,  porter !" 

"All  right,  miss,"  he  said;  "I'll  find  the  con 
ductor." 

When  the  porter  turned  to  make  his  way  through 
the  car  he  was  forced  to  elbow  a  number  of  passen 
gers  aside,  among  them  the  man  in  the  brown  coat, 
who  was  grinning.  Josephine  heard  him  remark 
to  some  one : 

"That  young  woman  certainly  has  the  courage 
of  her  convictions !" 

The    remark    was    not    strikingly    original,    but 


WEST!  27 

Josephine  blushed  with  embarrassment,  though  her 
chin  was  a  little  more  formidable  than  usual.  At 
least  she  had  the  courage  to  save  the  life  of  an  in 
nocent  man. 

An  instant  later  her  face  grew  very  pale. 
For  she  heard  a  clatter  above  the  subdued  roar 
of  the  train,  and  glanced  rearward  to  see  a  horse 
and  rider  close  to  the  platform. 

The  rider  was  the  black-haired  man.  He  was 
on  a  big,  black  horse  which  was  thundering  toward 
the  train  at  an  alarming  rate.  The  horse  was 
clean-limbed,  powerful,  rangy.  There  was  spirit 
in  his  wild,  glowing  eyes,  terrific  energy  in  the 
mighty  muscles  that  leaped  and  writhed  under 
his  glossy  coat  as  he  hurled  himself  after  the  speed 
ing  train.  To  Josephine  the  animal  loomed  gi 
gantic  ;  he  was  the  indomitable  medium  fate  had 
hurled  after  her  for  the  purpose  of  thwarting  her 
effort  to  save  a  principle  from  destruction.  She 
got  the  impression  watching  him.  Also  she  re 
ceived  something  of  the  ,same  impression  as  she 
glanced  at  his  rider. 

The  black-haired  man  was  a  grim  figure.  He 
bestrode  his  horse  as  though  he  had  been  part  of  the 
animal;  and  he  was  so  close  to  the  platform  that 
Josephine  could  see  his  eyes.  She  could  tell  by 
the  expression  in  them  that  he  meant  to  win. 

Josephine  was  equally  determined.  The  rider 
must  have  seen  the  challenge  in  her  eyes,  the  grim 


28  WEST ! 

determination  of  her  manner,  for  a  faint,  mirth 
less  smile  twitched  at  his  lips.  He  was  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  platform  now,  and  he  swung  one 
leg  over  the  black's  back  in  preparation  for  a  leap. 
He  had  caught  the  reins  firmly  in  one  hand;  the 
other  began  to  reach  out  as  though  to  seize  the  rail 
of  the  platform. 

Josephine  moved  toward  the  point  where  it  seemed 
the  rider's  hand  must  grip  the  rail.  Twice  the 
rider  tentatively  reached  out,  his  fingers  ready  to 
grip  the  rail;  and  each  time  Josephine  kicked  sav 
agely  at  them.  Once  the  toe  of  her  shoe  struck 
the  iron,  but  the  second  time  she  felt  the  leather 
graze  the  clutching  fingers. 

The  rider  did  not  attempt  to  seize  the  rail  again, 
for  the  black  horse  stumbled,  began  to  fall  back. 
This  strange  trail  was  broken,  full  of  abrupt  de 
pressions,  hazardous,  for  the  cinder  level  had  ended 
and  the  spaces  between  the  ties  themselves  thrust 
their  sharp  corners  upward. 

The  black  horse  slowed  from  instinct.  Grad 
ually  the  space  between  train  and  horse  widened 
until,  acknowledging  defeat,  the  rider  drew  the 
animal  down.  He  swung  back  into  the  saddle, 
drew  his  broad  hat  from  his  head,  swept  it  down 
ward  and  bowed  derisively  to  Josephine. 

Josephine  stood  on  the  platform  until  horse  and 
rider  grew  toy-like  in  her  vision.  She  smiled 
triumphantly  and  made  her  way  to  the  center  of 


Twice  the  rider  tentatively  reached  out 


WEST!  29 

the  car,  where  she  met  the  conductor  and  Artwell. 
She  paid  Artwell's  fare,  to  Laskar,  beyond  Willets. 
Then,  with  the  stares  of  the  passengers  following 
her,  she  passed  out  of  the  car  to  go  to  her  compart 
ment,  confident  that  the  ends  of  justice  had  been 
served. 


CHAPTER  III 

JOSEPHINE  HAMILTON'S  mind  was  occupied 
with  distances.  At  the  beginning  of  her 
second  week  at  the  Lawson  ranch  she  was  deeply  im 
pressed  as  she  had  been  on  the  morning  following  her 
arrival,  when  she  had  got  her  first  view  of  the  new 
world  into  which  she  had  come. 

As  she  sat  in  a  cushioned  rocker  on  the  wide, 
shady  lower  veranda  of  the  Lawson  ranch-house 
this  morning,  she  was  convinced  that  distances  could 
not  be  appreciated  by  viewing  them  from  the  window 
of  a  Pullman.  One  must  not  merely  pass  through 
distances  at  so  many  miles  per  hour ;  one  must  be 
engulfed  by  them. 

She  felt  engulfed,  if  engulfed  meant  to  be  en 
tirely  surrounded;  she  was  considering  the  various 
synonyms  of  "atom,"  wondering  if  she  could  select 
qne  which  would  correctly  describe  her  relative 
insignificance  in  the  gigantic  wilderness  that 
stretched  under  the  clear,  cloudless,  smiling  skies. 

However,  at  all  events  she  was  a  sentient  atom, 
even  though  after  a  week,  awe  was  still  the  emotion 
that  dominated  her. 

It  was  an  awe  of  sheer  bigness.  The  Creator 
30 


WEST!  31 

had  touched  this  world  with  a  lavish,  generous 
hand.  It  was  as  though,  with  space  so  unlimited, 
He  had  proportioned  things  with  a  gigantic  measure. 
He  also  had  imparted  to  this  section  of  the  world 
a  ruggedness  which  hinted  at  endurance  eternal. 
And  then,  as  though  the  Creator  had  been  aware 
that  He  had  builded  with  exceeding  skill,  He  had 
wrought  a  marvelous  clarity  in  the  atmosphere, 
foreshortening  vast  distances  so  that  the  eye  could 
comprehend  the  magnificence  of  His  work. 

Southward  a  mountain  range  thrust  its  serrated 
peaks  into  a  calm  blue  sky.  The  mountains  seemed 
near,  and  yet  Betty  Lawson  had  told  her  the  distance 
to  their  bases  was  not  less  than  thirty  miles. 
Josephine  had  secretly  doubted  that  statement  until 
her  attention  had  been  called  to  the  intervening 
country.  And  then  she  saw  that  between  the  moun 
tains  and  the  ranch-house  there  spread  at  least  half 
a  dozen  forests — whose  trees  she  took  for  bushes 
until  Betty  very  seriously  and  calmly  assured  her 
that  some  of  them  were  cotton  woods  that  must 
have  been  there  for  hundreds  of  years — and  no  end 
of  big  valleys  and  gullies  and  draws,  together  with 
hills,  and  rather  extensive  levels  upon  which  a 
herd  of  cattle  could  graze  for  weeks.  Also,  Betty 
pointed  out  narrow  threads  of  silver  glittering  in 
the  sunlight,  which  she  assured  Josephine  were 
considerable  rivers  and  creeks;  and  rugged  buttes 
(which  Josephine  had  thought  were  large  rocks) 


32  WEST ! 

having  sheer  walls  that  rose  to  appalling  heights. 

It  was  like  looking  at  a  map  that  had  been  dec 
orated  by  a  master  painter,  a  map  that  was  tilted 
slightly  at  its  farthest  edges  to  create  the  impression 
of  an  upland. 

Not  only  when  gazing  southward  did  she  gain 
that  impression.  It  was  the  same  eastward,  west 
ward,  northward.  She  was  in  the  center  of  a  huge 
circle,  a  saucer-shaped  circle  sixty  miles  in  diame 
ter.  A  virgin  wilderness  such  as  it  had  been  when 
God  finished  it  stretched  away  mile  on  mile,  silent, 
slumberous,  mysterious,  beautiful ;  though  sinister 
in  its  threat  of  cruelty  toward  those  who  did  not 
know  its  secrets. 

She  was  certain  the  land  held  secrets.  She  felt 
them  in  the  silences;  they  were  borne  to  her  on  the 
whispering  breezes  that  swept  out  of  mysterious 
reaches  and  blew  steadily  against  her,  laden  with 
the  clear  pungent  aroma  of  sage. 

Betty  Lawson  had  met  her  at  Willets;  and  they 
had  reached  the  ranch-house  late  at  night.  The  un 
familiar  trail  over  which  Betty  had  driven  her  was, 
she  had  thought,  the  reason  she  had  been  aware  of 
a  strange  depression  of  spirit,  even  though  she  had 
not  betrayed  herself  to  Betty.  Riding  toward  the 
ranch-house  that  night  she  had  felt  she  was  entering 
a  ghostly  region  where  danger,  invisible  and  terri 
ble,  lurked  on  every  hand.  She  had  seeemd  to  be 
riding  into  a  vacuum. 


WEST!  33 

•Morning  had  not  dispelled  the  impression  of  the 
night.  Nature  seemed  to  wait,  derisively  masking 
her  secrets.  There  was  a  hush  in  the  atmosphere, 
a  brooding,  menacing  silence  which  made  her  feel 
that  all  the  invisible  and  threatening  forces  around 
her  were  biding  their  time;  were  waiting  until  she 
should  be  surely  in  their  .power  before  they  re 
vealed  themselves. 

Even  the  ranch  buildings  seemed  to  be  sur 
rounded  by  a  brooding,  slumberous  silence.  All 
sound  was  sharp,  jarring,  shattering,  when  there 
was  sound.  When  some  one  moved  inside  the 
ranch-house  the  sound  could  be  heard  distinctly 
outside.  If  some  one  spoke  the  voice  carried  with 
a  resonance  that  startled  her.  If  a  horse  neighed 
in  the  far  pasture,  half  a  mile  distant,  it  was  as 
though  the  animal  had  been  merely  around  a  corner 
of  the  house. 

Betty  and  a  Chinese  cook  were  the  only  persons, 
beside  herself,  who  occupied  the  house.  Mr.  Law- 
son  and  Betty's  mother  had  gone  East  for  the  sum 
mer.  Mrs.  Lawson's  health  demanded  a  change 
of  scene. 

Josephine  had  seen  plenty  of  cow-boys.  The 
bunk  and  mess-houses  were  at  a  distance  from  the 
ranch-house.  They  were  grouped  on  a  little  level 
near  a  big  corral  which  spanned  a  narrow,  shallow 
river ;  and  Josephine  had  observed  that  there  always 
seemed  to  be  cow-boys  around  the  buildings. 


34  WEST! 

But  not  once  had  she  been  near  enough  to  any  of 
them  to  determine  what  type  of  men  they  were. 
She  supposed  they  were  like  the  cow-boys  she  had 
seen  on  the  day  she  had  rescued  the  horse-thief ;  and 
she  told  herself  she  did  not  care  to  go  near  them. 

She  saw  them  ride  in,  dismount,  turn  their  horses 
into  the  corral;  saw  them  washing  their  faces  from 
tin  wash-basins  that  stood  on  a  bench  that  ranged 
the  outside  wall  of  the  mess-house. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  their  voices;  she  heard 
laughter,  and  some  profanity.  She  wondered  if 
they  knew  the  profanity  could  be  heard,  and  quickly 
decided  that  if  they  were  like  the  men  she  had  seen 
that  day  on  her  way  to  Willets,  they  would  not  care 
if  they  were  heard. 

She  had  not  spoken  to  Betty  of  her  experience 
with  the  black-haired  man,  for  she  was  reluctant 
to  have  Betty  see  her  in  the  role  that  would  shatter 
her  friend's  preconceived  notions  of  the  calm 
masterfulness  Betty  so  much  admired.  Also,  she 
was  afraid  Betty's  alert  keen-mindedness  would 
discern  in  her  action  less  of  a  championship  of 
principle  than  of  a  natural  human  instinct  to  have 
one's  way  about  a  thing.  Betty  had  a  quiet,  prob 
ing  eye  and  a  habit  of  direct  speech  that  often  had 
disconcerted  Josephine. 

During  the  hundred  and  fifty-mile  ride  to  Willets 
after  the  rescue,  Josephine  had  not  seen  the  horse- 
thief.  She  had  not  cared  to  talk  with  him,  for 


WEST!  35 

she  was  not  interested  in  him,  had  not  been  inter 
ested  in  him  at  any  time  except  to  prevent  the  black- 
haired  man  from  hanging  him. 

But  this  morning  she  was  thinking  of  him,  and 
of  the  black-haired  man — how  the  latter  had  looked 
as  he  had  sat  on  the  rock  that  day,  his  keen,  steady, 
mocking  eyes  watching  the  passengers.  She  had 
felt  the  man's  aggressive  personality  that  day;  the 
inflexibility  of  his  character,  his  cold,  calm  confi 
dence.  He  had  seemed  so  sure  of  himself ;  had 
seemed  to  be  so  completely  oblivious  of  the  fact  that 
persons  other  than  himself  might  have  convictions, 
and  determination,  fully  as  strong  as  his  own. 
That  was  why  she  had  hated  him. 

She  was  staring  meditatively  northward — a 
picture  of  the  train,  the  cow-boys,  and  the  black- 
haired  man  in  mind — when  she  became  aware  of  a 
presence  behind  her,  and  turned  to  see  Betty  Law- 
son.  She  had  been  so  absorbed  in  her  mental 
picture  that  she  had  not  heard  Betty  approaching. 
She  blushed  from  the  realization  that  she  was  spend 
ing  a  great  deal  of  time  thinking  of  the  black- 
haired  man. 

"Still  staring  at  the  country,  Jo;  you  do  a  lot  of 
it.  If  I  did  'nt  know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  I  'd  think 
you  were  expecting  some  one!" 

Betty's  voice  was  light  with  banter.  But  her 
clear,  brown  eyes  were  a-gleam  with  concern — and 
some  speculation.  One  had  to  bury  one's  emotions 


36  WEST ! 

very  deep  to  keep  Betty's  probing  eyes  from  un 
covering  them. 

The  girl  was  keenly  appreciative  of  life.  The 
phenomena  of  life  interested  her.  The  set  of  her 
head,  the  way  she  squared  her  shoulders,  facing  all 
things  fairly,  told  of  wonderful  vitality,  eagerness, 
directness,  wholesomeness. 

"You  Ve  been  moping  too  much  since  you  've 
been  here,  Jo,"  she  said,  watching  her  friend. 
"You  've  seen  too  much  of  the  country  from  the 
gallery,  and  not  enough  from  the  saddle.  You  are 
going  riding  with  me." 

"I  never  rode  a  horse  in  my  life!"  declared  Jose 
phine. 

"You  are  beginning  now.  I  Ve  had  one  of  the 
men  saddle  Chesterfield  for  you.  Chesterfield  is 
mild-mannered  and  dependable.  He  has  n't  bucked 
since  Noah  turned  him  out  of  the  ark.  He  likes 
ladies,  especially  Eastern  ladies.  He  '11  like  you, 
more  especially  because  he  '11  recognize  in  you  a 
constitutional  timidity  not  unlike  his  own.  Come 
on,  Jo!"  she  wheedled. 

Josephine  got  up  rather  uncertainly,  affected  by 
Betty's  breezy  jocularity.  She  was  given  no  op 
portunity  to  decline,  for  the  instant  she  was  on  her 
feet  Betty  seized  her  by  the  shoulders,  wheeled  her 
around,  and  pushed  her  toward  the  open  doorway 
leading  into  the  big  living-room. 

"Put  on  your  most  disreputable  duds,"  advised 


WEST !  37 

Betty.  "This  is  n't  Riverside  Drive,  you  know, 
and  if  we  meet  anybody  it  will  be  an  accident,  or 
a  miracle.  Hustle !  We  '11  ride  over  and  have  a 
talk  with  Mrs.  Whitman.  That 's  only  ten  miles. 
Mrs.  Whitman  is  an  invalid." 

"I  thought  there  were  no  other — " 

"Thought  we  had  Paradise  Valley  to  ourselves, 
I  suppose.  Well,  we  have  n't.  There  are  Ben 
Whitman,  who  is  quite  a  philosopher  in  a  way; 
Satan  Lattimer,  a  big  brute  whose  name  fits  him 
like  a  kid  glove;  and  half  a  dozen  nesters  who  have 
come  in  within  the  last  year  or  so.  They 
— the  nesters — are  on  the  rim  of  the  basin, 
though;  and  they  don't  count — unless  we  miss 
cattle." 

"Satan  Lattimer!"  said  Josephine,  halting1  in 
the  doorway  and  studying  Betty's  face.  "That 
name  suggests — " 

"It  describes  him  to  a  T!"  said  Betty,  her  lips 
tightening.  "He  is  a  devil.  Every  evil  thing  that 
happens  in  this  basin  is  laid  at  his  door.  He 's 
handsome,  terribly,  darkly  handsome.  He 's  a 
ruthless,  smiling  devil.  If  he  had  lived  two  hun 
dred  years  ago  he  would  have  been  a  pirate.  But 
he  's  a  man,  Jo;  every  inch  of  him.  He  stands  out 
of  the  crowd,  he  dominates.  That  is,  he  dominates 
everybody  but  Ben  Whitman  and  'Steel'  Brannon, 
dad's  ranch-boss.  His  real  name  is  not  'Steel' 
at  all,  but  Neal ;  they  got  to  calling  him  'Steel' 


38  WEST! 

because  he  's  like  that  metal  when  somebody  crosses 
him. 

"There  are  other  men  in  this  section  of  the 
country;  there's  dad,  and  there  are  the  men  of 
our  outfit,  and  still  other  men  over  at  Willets. 

"None  of  them  counts,  except  perhaps  dad,  who 
is  n't  as  young  as  he  once  was.  Ben  Whitman, 
Satan  Lattimer,  and  Steel  Brannon  are  the  real 
forces  around  here.  You  '11  feel  them  instantly, 
once  you  meet  them.  There 's  something  about 
them,  even  about  Satan  Lattimer,  that  makes  you 
realize  they  are  different.  I  think  it  is  a  matter 
of  heredity  and  breeding.  You  feel  that  the  strain 
ran  back  in  a  straight  line — no  wavering,  no  side 
journeys.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  mean,  but 
I  have  always  felt  that  Whitman,  Lattimer,  and 
Brannon  are  the  sons  of  men  who  amounted  to 
something.  I  think  Whitman's  forebears  were 
hunters  or  trappers,  men  who  lived  in  solitudes  and 
who  established  habits  of  thinking  deeply  because 
there  was  no  one  about  to  bother  them. 

"Lattimer's  ancestors  were  very  like  buccaneers 
or  swash-buckling  gentlemen  of  fortune;  while 
Steel  Brannon  is  a  descendant  of  Boone. 

"Anyway,  Jo,  they  are  real  men;  bonnie  men  of 
muscle  and  brawn  and  steel  and  fire.  I  like  them, 
even  Lattimer,  although  I  know  Lattimer  would  n't 
hesitate  an  instant  to  carry  a  woman  away  to  the 
mountains  if  he  got  an  opportunity." 


WEST!  39 

"Betty!"  said  Josephine,  sharply. 

"You  're  West,  Jo,"  came  the  unsmiling  reply. 
"We  deal  in  straight  talk ;  there  's  no  shilly-shally 
ing."  Her  manner  changed;  her  eyes  danced,  she 
spoke  authoritatively : 

"Come  on,  now.  Get  ready.  We  are  losing 
time." 

Josephine  had  loved  Betty  for  the  very  quality  of 
straightforwardness  that  various  other  girls  at 
school  had  affected  to  dislike.  She  and  Betty  had 
been  very  intimate. 

Josephine  had  found  Betty  to  be  sturdily,  almost 
militantly  virtuous,  though  there  was  nothing  of 
the  prude  in  her.  She  was  honest  and  direct  in 
speech  and  action,  rebuffing  in  terms  unmistakable 
men  who  transgressed,  insisting  that  she  would  have 
no  man  hunting  her,  and  that  when  the  time  came 
she  would  choose  her  man,  perhaps  tell  him  of 
her  choice.  But  despite  these  rather  startling  qual 
ities  of  character  she  was  tender,  sympathetic,  and 
endowed  with  a  wonderful  womanliness  and  a 
capacity  for  deep,  real  passion.  Josephine  had  won 
dered  much  about  her;  she  now  had  a  divination 
that  what  she  had  once  considered  belligerence  in 
the  girl  was  merely  a  mask,  adopted  to  hold  off  the 
rough  men  among  whom  she  had  been  forced  to 
live. 

Josephine's  preparations  for  the  ride  were  simple, 
for  she  followed  Betty's  injunction  to  "put  on  your 


40  WEST ! 

most  disreputable  duds."  She  got  into  a  shirt 
waist  and  skirt,  and  pulled  over  her  wealth  of  hair 
the  felt  hat  she  had  worn  on  the  train,  pausing  an 
instant  to  peer  critically  at  her  reflection  in  a  glass. 
What  she  saw  there  reassured  her,  even  though 
she  had  drawn  the  hat  so  far  down  that  it  almost 
hid  her  hair,  giving  her  a  boyish,  and  a  rather  impish, 
appearance. 

Then  she  walked  toward  the  door  leading  to  the 
veranda.  She  had  almost  reached  it  when  she  saw 
a  horseman  at  the  edge  of  the  gallery.  He  was 
sitting  crosswise  in  the  saddle,  his  long  legs  dangling. 
His  arms  were  folded  across  his  chest,  and  he  was 
smiling  down  at  Betty,  who  stood  near  him. 

It  was  her  hated  enemy,  the  black-haired  man. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JOSEPHINE'S  first  impulse  was  founded  upon 
panic,  ignoble,  shameful.  She  wanted  to  run. 
How  she  conquered  the  impulse  she  did  not 
'know.  Perhaps  Betty's  voice  dissuaded  her;  for 
Betty's  words  were  very  distinct: 

''So  you  let  him  escape?     O  Brannon!" 

There  was  disappointment  in  Betty's  voice;  it 
verged  closely  upon  anger.  Certainly  it  betrayed 
a  strained  patience. 

However,  Josephine  was  concerned  only  with 
the  significance  of  the  words;  they  revealed  clearly 
two  astonishing  and  startling  facts :  that  the  black- 
haired  man  was  "Steel"  Brannon,  and  that  Betty  had 
known  he  was  pursuing  Les  Artwell,  the  horse-thief. 

"Art well  ought  to  be  mighty  thankful  that  girl 
was  on  the  train,"  said  Brannon.  His  voice  was 
dryly  humorous,  and  though  Josephine  could  not 
see  his  face  she  felt  his  lips  were  curving  in  that 
peculiar  faint  smile  she  had  seen  on  them  more 
than  once  when  he  had  been  watching  the  passengers 
who  had  surrounded  him. 

"She  's  foxy,  all  right,"  he  went  on  in  the  same 
dry  tone;  ''and  she  's  got  grit.  I  'd  add  that  she  's 

41 


42  WEST ! 

a  mighty  good-looker,  if  I  was  n't  afraid  you  'd 
think  I  let  her  fool  me  on  that  account.  It  was  n't 
that.  She  'd  been  arguing  with  me  about  letting 
Artwell  off,  and  I  'd  convinced  her  she  did  n't  know 
what  she  was  talking  about.  So  she  sneaked  away. 
But  after  the  train  started  to  pull  out  I  missed 
Artwell. 

"Somebody  had  cut  Artwell  loose — the  girl,  I 
reckon.  Anyway  Artwell  was  n't  where  he  'd  been 
all  along.  I  was  certain  he  'd  got  on  the  train, 
so  I  rode  after  it.  The  girl  was  standing  on  the 
rear  platform,  and  she  was  dead  set  on  keeping 
me  off  of  it.  Kicked  at  my  hands  when  I  tried 
to  grab  the  rail  and  knocked  some  bark  off  my  fin 
gers. 

"I  did  n't  chase  the  train  far ;  the  going  got 
pretty  bad.  I  was  afraid  my  horse  would  break 
a  leg,  which  I  would  n't  have  happen  for  a  dozen 
horse-thieves." 

"What  was  her  object?"  inquired  Betty. 

"Just  to  get  him  off,  I  reckon,"  Brannon  laughed 
mirthlessly.  "She  talked  some  of  law — seeming  to 
think  we  had  no  right  to  hang  Artwell.  I  sized 
her  up  as  a  woman  with  brains  who  'd  got  long 
on  principle — the  principle  of  taking  what  she 
wants." 

"Where  did  it  happen,  Brannon?" 

"About  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  east  of  Willets. 
We  'd  been  after  Artwell  for  three  days  and  caught 


WEST !  43 

him  about  two  miles  north  of  the  railroad.  We 
figured  on  using  a  telegraph  pole,  but  we  did  n't 
aim  to  send  Artwell  off  unprepared.  Seemed  he 
needed  a  lot  of  preparation.  We  gave  him  time, 
camping  beside  the  railroad  track  and  setting  a 
watch  over  him.  I  reckon  we  ought  to  have  hurried 
the  thing  a  little ;  but  you  know  how  it  is." 

"Yes."  Betty's  voice  was  low  :  Josephine  thought 
she  detected  relief  in  it,  and  was  strangely  grateful. 
It  proved  that  despite  Betty's  disappointment,  ex 
pressed  in  her  first  words  to  Brannon,  she  was 
really  glad  Artwell  had  escaped. 

Josephine's  face  was  burning  with  shame  and 
embarrassment — shame  that  she  had  stood  there  so 
long,  listening  to  a  conversation  she  had  no  right 
to  hear;  and  embarrassment  over  the  knowledge 
that  she  must  immediately  reveal  herself. 

No  other  course  would  be  fair  to  Betty.  And 
the  longer  she  delayed  the  deeper  would  her  sense 
of  guilt  become. 

Yet  courage  of  a  rare  sort  was  required  deliber 
ately  to  thrust  herself  unannounced  into  the  presence 
of  the  black-haired  man  at  this  moment.  Some 
women  would  have  delayed,  would  have  found 
some  excuse  to  postpone  the  ordeal.  But  in  an 
instant  Josephine  had  done  it.  There  was  a  tight 
ening  of  lips,  a  setting  of  the  eyes,  a  squaring  of 
the  chin  that  could  be  so  formidable,  and  she  stood 
in  the  open  doorway,  straight,  rigid,  defiant. 


44  WEST ! 

Brannon  saw  her  first,  because  Betty  was  facing 
another  direction.  Josephine  had  expected  him  to 
exclaim  violently  or  at  least  betray  some  sign  of 
excitemen-t  or  agitation. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  Brannon  be 
trayed  no  outward  sign  of  emotion  at  sight  of  her. 
Not  a  muscle  of  his  body  moved;  he  did  not  even 
change  color.  His  eyes,  though,  steady  as  they  had 
been  when  they  had  gazed  at  her  that  other  time, 
had  depths  that  she  could  not  fathom. 

Of  one  thing  she  became  certain  as  she  stood 
looking  at  him — he  did  not  intend  to  recognize  her, 
or  at  least  betray  her  to  Betty. 

Betty,  who  knew  Brannon  better  than  he  sus 
pected,  had  observed  a  change  in  him.  Her  gaze 
had  been  upon  him  all  along,  and  she  had  plumbed 
the  depths  that  had  baffled  Josephine.  She  knew 
something  amused  Brannonr 

She  turned,  and  saw  Josephine;  noted  the  pale 
ness  of  her  friend's  face,  and  how  her  chin  was 
squared.  She  also  became  aware  of  the  set  bel 
ligerence  in  Josephine's  eyes. 

But  she  masked  her  knowledge  with  a  smile  and 
a  courtesy. 

"Jo,"  she  saM,  "I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Neal 
Brannon,  our  ranch-boss." 

"I  met  Mr.  Brannon  a  few  days  ago,"  said 
Josephine  steadily.  "If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  has 
just  been  telling  you  about  it.  I  prevented  a  hang- 


WEST!  45 

ing  which  would  not  have  been  strictly-  legal,  in 
my  opinion." 

"Jo!     You  don't  mean — " 

"Yes,"  grimly  interrupted  Josephine;  "I  am  the 
girl  who  defended  a  principle — the  principle  of 
taking  what  one  wants."  She  looked  straight  at 
Brannon. 

"Mercy!"  exclaimed  Betty.  "Why,  I  had  no 
idea—"  " 

She  paused,  looked  at  both  Brannon  and  Joseph 
ine;  saw  the  humor  in  Brannon's  eyes,  now  grown 
eloquent;  observed  in  Josephine's  eyes  the  tell 
tale  signs  of  rage,  and  instantly  leagued  herself 
with  her  guest. 

"Brannon,"  she  said  sharply,  "please  attend  to 
the  matter  we  were  speaking  about!" 

Brannon  bowed,  swung  back  into  the  saddle,  and 
rode*  away.  He  had  almost  reached  the  corral  gates 
when  Betty  turned  to  her  friend. 

"Tell  me  about,  it,  Jo,"  she  invited,  gently. 

"Yes,"  she  sai'd,  when  Josephine  had  briefly 
told  her  story ;  "it  must  have  seemed  cruel  and  brutal 
to  you ;  and  I  don't  know  but  that  you  were  per 
fectly  right  in  interfering.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
done  so  myself  if  I  had  been  there. 

"But  Brannon  told  you  the  truth.  Law  as  law  is 
a  farce  in  this  section.  What  law  there  is  is  n't 
worth  talking  about ;  it  is  negligible  when  it  is  n't 
positively  silly.  A  man  who  steals  a  horse  is  quite 


46  WEST! 

aware  of  the  fate  that  awaits  him  if  captured; 
he  suffers  the  penalty  made  certain  by  custom. 
It  is  n't  murder,  according  to  the  code  which  governs 
such  matters. 

"Brannon  did  n't  see  the  incident  as  you  saw 
it,  though  no  doubt  he  had  some  idea  of  how  you 
felt.  And  possibly  he  irritated  you  by  his  habit 
of  secretly  laughing  at  one.  Brannon  is  a  real  man, 
Jo." 

She  gave  Josephine  a  reassuring  hug,  then  laugh 
ingly  patted  the  crimson  cheeks. 

"Don't  you  dare  feel  bad  about  it,"  she  warned. 
"I  'm  glad  it  turned  out  that  way.  I  did  n't  order 
Brannon  to  hang  Artwell,  though  I  knew  Brannon 
was  going  to  catch  him  if  possible;  and  if  I  felt 
any  emotion  at  all  over  the  prospect  it  was  a  sort 
of  dumb  acquiescence  in  the  customs  that  govern 
such  matters. 

"But  I  'm  glad  now,  Jo,  really  glad  you  saved 
Artwell.  The  main  fact  is  that  he  has  gone,  and 
that  is  what  we  wanted.  I  think  he  will  not  bother 
us  again.  I  '11  bet  Brannon  feels  the  same 
way  about  it.  Now  you  sit  right  down  in 
the  rocker  while  I  get  the  horses.  We  are  not 
going  to  have  our  ride  spoiled  by  such  a  silly  inci 
dent." 

Later,  mounted  on  Chesterfield,  staid,  dependable, 
and  accompanied  by  Betty,  who  rode  a  spirited 
bay  horse,  Josephine  was  conscious  that  she  was 


WEST !  47 

startled  by  her  friend's  charity  of  judgment  as 
applied  to  Brannon. 

Betty's  standards,  she  felt,  were  rather  elastic, 
in  that  they  admitted  Satan  Lattimer  to  her  favor 
able  consideration  upon  the  basis  by  which  she 
judged  Brannon. 

Both,  Betty  had  said,  were  real  men.  And  in 
the  same  breath  she  had  drawn  a  vivid  word-picture 
which  had  flatly  contradicted  the  statement,  especi 
ally  with  regard  to  Lattimer. 

"Brute"  was  one  word  that  had  gone  upon  Betty's 
canvas  as  a  daub  of  character  into  the  verbal  picture. 
"He  is  a  devil,"  had  been  added  to  it;  followed  by 
"He  's  handsome,  terribly,  darkly  handsome  .... 
ruthless,  smiling  devil  ....  would  have  been 
pirate."  And  then ;  "But  he  's  a  man,  Jo ;  every 
inch  of  him  ....  he  dominates.  They  are  real 
men"  (thus  she  had  included  Whitman  and  Bran 
non,  getting  them  into  the  picture  with  Lattimer), 
"bonnie  men  of  muscle  and  brawn  and  steel  and 
fire.  I  like  them — even  Lattimer,  who  would  not 
hesitate  to  carry  a  woman  away  to  the  mountains." 

Josephine  was  n't  sure  that  she  understood  Betty 
after  all.  Was  she  to  assume  that  Betty's  stand 
ards  were  at  variance  with  those  already  accepted 
by  the  world — standards  that  had  been  vindicated 
by  time,  and  under  which  all  human  conduct  had 
been  appraised  and  valued?  Or  was  she  to  believe 
that  despite  Betty's  frank  description  of  Lattimer's 


48  WEST ! 

scarcely  admirable  predilections,  she  had  discovered 
in  him  qualities  of  character  that  would  entitle  him 
to  be  accepted  by  the  world  as  a  "real  man"  ? 

And  what  about  Brannon?  He  too,  according 
to  Betty,  was  a  "real  man."  Was  he  like  Lattimer? 
And  had  Betty  merely  omitted  to  mention  his 
charming  manners  out  of  consideration  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  her  father's  range-boss? 

Or  was  Brannon  different?  Josephine  thought 
not.  She  was  convinced  that  various  wild  and 
vicious  impulses  were  concealed  behind  Brannon's 
formidably  smooth,  steel-like  exterior,  and  that  only 
time  would  reveal  them. 

Was  that  why  she  was  curious  about  the  man, 
why  there  reigned  in  her  mind  at  this  instant 
a  desire  to  stay  on  at  Betty's  ranch,  a  desire  to  stay 
that  she  might  watch  him  betray  himself  as  the 
wild  man  she  knew  him  to  be  ? 

"Betty,"  she  said,  after  a  while,  when  there  came 
a  pause  in  her  frierrd's  chatter,  while  the  two  horses 
were  breasting  some  tall  saccaton  grass  at  the 
bottom  of  a  wide  depression,  "how  old  is  Bran 
non?" 

"Twenty-seven,"  replied  Betty.  Out  of  the  tail 
of  her  eye  she  glanced  at  Josephine,  and  her  lips 
took  on  a  queer  firmness,  as  though  she  was  re 
pressing  some  disturbing  emotion. 

"He  looks  older,"  remarked  Josephine,  after  an 
interval  of  silence. 


WEST !  49 

"Do  you  think  so?"  inquired  Betty,  calmly, 
again  glancing  swiftly  at  her  friend. 

"It 's  the  wind  and  the  sun  that  have  made  him 
look  so  bronzed  and  rough,  I  suppose;  and  the 
hard  life  that  has  made  his  eyes  seem  so — so  un 
flinchingly  steady.  I  hate  him,  Betty!" 

"Uh-huh,"  returned  Betty,  inexpressively. 

Josephine  did  not  see  the  cynical  curve  on  Betty's 
lips. 


CHAPTER  V 

JOSEPHINE  had  brought  away  from  the  Whit 
man  cabin  one  distinct  impression,  which  had 
haunted  her  day  and  night  during  the  two  weeks 
that  had  elapsed  since  her  visit — that  the  rugged- 
ness  of  the  country  accentuated  Mrs.  Whitman's 
fragility. 

Mrs.  Whitman  was  the  mother  of  Ben  Whitman 
— the  latter  one  of  that  trio  of  men  eulogized  by 
Betty  during  Josephine's  first  days  at  the  Lawson 
ranch — a  slight,  tragic-faced  woman  who  bore  her 
affliction  in  stoic  silence.  For  two  years  she  had 
not  been  outside  the  walls  of  the  Whitman  ranch- 
house,  and  her  welcome  to  Josephine  had  been 
pathetically  eager,  as  was  also  her  insistence  that 
Josephine  should  come  again,  "very  soon." 

Josephine  had  promised,  but  the  second  visit  was 
as  yet  in  prospect  because  Betty  Lawson  had  been 
very  busy — too  busy  to  go  "gadding,"  she  had 
frankly  told  Josephine — and  Josephine  would  not 
make  the  journey  alone. 

For  into  Josephine's  heart  had  crept  a  new  awe 
of  the  country,  an  awe  of  the  grim  strength  that 
seemed  to  be  everywhere  around  her,  that  seemed 

50 


WEST!  51 

to  encompass  her  when  she  moved,  that  oppressed 
her  with  a  sense  of  her  own  relative  weakness  and 
aroused  a  consciousness  of  futility. 

Strangely,  when  she  paused  to  attempt  to  analyze 
the  sensation,  she  did  not  know  where  to  begin. 
For  she  was  aware  that  everything  she  saw  affected 
her  with  its  grim,  rugged  strength.  The  cattle  she 
watched  were  tall,  gaunt  creatures  of  leathery 
muscle,  wild-eyed,  irritable,  who  could  run  as  fast 
as  a  horse.  The  horses  were  tough,  shaggy,  evil- 
tempered  beasts  that  seemed  eternally  to  combat 
restraint  of  every  character.  The  men  she  had  seen 
were  silent,  grim,  self-sufficient,  seeming  to  reflect 
the  spirit  of  the  country;  they  looked  like  bronze 
images  of  a  prehistoric  race  with  their  weather- 
beaten  faces  and  their  serene,  steady  eyes.  And 
every  man  wore  deadly  weapons  which,  she  was 
certain,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  use. 

The  poisonous  life  that  had  come  under  Jose 
phine's  observation  had  filled  her  with  a  dread  of 
doing  any  walking  whatsoever.  Loathsome  crea 
tures  that  wriggled  and  crawled  and  hopped  had 
come  into  view  from  places  most  unexpected.  On 
the  ride  to  the  Whitman  ranch  Betty  had  pointed 
out  some  of  the  lurking  denizens  of  the  waste  land 
to  her.  A  diamond-back  rattler  coiled  in  the  shade 
of  a  mesquite-tree ;  a  scorpion  in  the  lee  of  a  flat 
rock;  a  horned  toad,  rigid,  gray,  hideous,  staring 
unblinkingly  at  the  horses,  impudent,  defiant. 


52  WEST! 

Josephine  shuddered  as  she  stood  this  morning  at 
the  edge  of  the  lower  veranda  of  the  ranch-house 
watching  the  progress  of  a  dust-cloud  that  traveled 
steadily  northward  through  the  basin.  Ahead  of 
the  dust-cloud  was  the  Lawson  buckboard,  and  in 
the  buckboard  were  Betty  Lawson  and  a  cow-boy. 

Betty  was  on  her  way  to  Willets  for  supplies  of 
a  varied  character.  It  was  a  trip  that  Josephine 
had  declined  because  of  its  attendant  inconvenien 
ces;  namely,  the  heat,  the  dust,  the  monotony  of 
travel  by  such  primitive  methods,  and  Willets  itself, 
which  she  had  disliked  at  sight  on  the  day  she  had 
descended  from  the  train  to  the  town's  tumble-down 
station. 

But  with  Betty's  departure  a  heavy  lonesomeness 
had  settled  over  the  ranch-house,  and  Josephine 
half  regretted  that  she  had  not  accompanied  her 
friend.  She  watched  the  progress  of  the  buckboard 
through  the  basin  with  a  regret  that  was  strangely 
mixed  with  apprehension;  and  the  farther  the 
buckboard  drew  away  the  deeper  grew  her  con 
viction  that  she  should  have  accompanied  Betty. 
Betty's  comforting  presence  had  had  the  effect  of 
rendering  vague  and  formless  the  menacing,  lurk 
ing  dangers  that  seemed  everywhere  around  her; 
with  Betty  going  away  those  dangers  seemed  to 
draw  nearer  in  inverse  ratio  to  Betty's  progress 
away  from  the  ranch. 

But  Josephine  was  not  a  coward,  even  though 


WEST!  53 

the  smile  she  gave  the  surrounding1  country  was 
slightly  stiff-lipped  and  mirthless.  The  dangers  she 
had  apprehended  must  be  largely  imaginary,  since 
Betty  had  survived  them. 

Her  smile  grew.  Inside  the  house  she  could  hear 
Chong,  the  Chinese  servant,  rattling  pots  and  pans. 
The  sound  cheered  her,  brought  her  mind  abruptly 
back  from  the  realm  of  fancy  and  imaginary 
dangers.  Chong  had  been  the  only  human  being 
in  the  ranch-house  with  Betty  since  Betty's  parents 
had  gone  East,  some  weeks  before  Josephine's 
arrival.  And  apparently  Betty  had  been  unharmed. 

Still  Josephine  was  conscious  of  a  strange  dis 
quiet  which  was  almost  premonitory.  She  felt 
terribly  alone,  oddly  depressed.  And  yet  she  knew 
positively  that  Chong  was  inside  the  house  and  that 
Brannon  was  in  the  little  shack — the  foreman's 
cabin — which  stood  on  a  little  level  not  more  than 
a  hundred  feet  straight  west  from  where  she  stood, 
and  in  plain  view. 

Brannon  was  the  only  occupant  of  the  foreman's 
cabin — Betty  had  told  Josephine  that — and  he  was 
inside  of  it  now ;  for  not  more  than  ten  minutes  ago, 
from  a  window,  Josephine  had  seen  him  entering. 
And  she  was  positive  he  had  not  gone  out  for — she 
admitted  it  with  a  blush — she  had  watched  the  door 
rather  expectantly. 

She  knew  the  bunk-houses  were  empty,  for  at 
breakfast  Betty  had  told  her  the  outfit  had  departed 


54  WEST ! 

before  daylight  to  spend  a  few  days  on  the  open 
range,  southward,  searching  for  calves  and  such 
other  stock  as  they  might  find  unbranded. 

Betty  had  said  nothing  about  Brannon  staying 
behind.  Josephine's  explanation  for  his  presence 
was  that  perhaps  some  other  duty  had  delayed  his 
departure.  She  wondered  if  Betty  knew  Brannon 
had  not  gone  with  the  other  men. 

Occupied  with  that  thought,  her  gaze  wandered 
toward  the  bunk-houses.  There  were  two,  situated 
side  by  side,  within  fifty  feet  of  the  bank  of  the 
shallow  stream  spanned  by  the  corral.  The  low, 
rambling  building  used  as  a  cook-  and  mess-house 
stood  near  the  bunk-houses.  The  three  buildings 
were  not  more  than  two  hundred  feet  distant. 

Twice  before  she  had  looked  at  the  bunk-houses, 
and  had  seen  no  signs  of  life  about  them.  Now, 
as  she  gazed,  she  saw  a  man  come  into  view  from 
around  a  corner,  stand  for  an  instant  facing  her 
and  then  sit  down  leisurely  upon  a  bench  that  stood 
close  to  the  wall  of  the  building. 

The  man  had  walked  with  a  pronounced  limp, 
as  though  he  had  suffered  an  injury  to  a  foot  or  a 
leg.  But  the  marvelous  clarity  of  the  atmosphere 
brought  his  features  before  her  distinctly,  and  she 
recognized  him  as  the  dark  man  who  had  whispered 
to  her  that  day  beside  the  railroad  track — the  man 
who  had  aided  her  in  freeing  Les  Artwell,  the 
horse-thief. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NOT  until  she  saw  the  dark  man  did  Josephine 
realize  that  at  least  part  of  the  vague  dread 
which  had  afflicted  her  after  Betty's  departure  had 
been  aroused  over  the  knowledge  that  Brannon  had 
not  gone  with  the  others.  She  knew  now,  however, 
that  her  instinctive  distrust  of  Brannon  and  possi 
bly  her  hatred  of  him  had  invited  the  strange  de 
pression  that  had  seized  her.  In  no  other  way 
could  she  explain  her  relief  over  the  fact  that  Bran 
non  was  not  the  only  man  at  the  ranch-house. 

She  had  no  faith  in  Betty's  rather  extravagant 
recommendation  of  Brannon.  She  had  never  been 
in  the  habit  of  accepting  friends  or  acquaintances 
upon  a  basis  so  precarious,  and  she  did  not  intend 
to  begin  now.  She  would  choose  her  own  friends, 
judging  them  by  her  own  standards. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  prejudice,  which  must  be 
considered ;  but  she  was  certain  that  in  spite  of  the 
unfavorable  impression  she  had  formed  of  Brannon 
that  day  beside  the  railroad  track  she  would  have 
disliked  him.  She  was  certain  she  would  always 
dislike  and  distrust  him,  for  she  did  not  care  for 

55 


56  WEST ! 

men  who  had  the  disturbing  habit  of  seeming  to  look 
through  one. 

From  the  first,  Brannon's  eyes  had  offended  her. 
They  were  so  steady  and  steely  and  so  irritatingly 
calm,  so  serenely  mocking  in  their  blue  depths,  that 
they  had  aroused  in  her  a  violent  antagonism.  She 
was  certain  that  they  masked  various  wild  and  reck 
less  impulses  such  as  Betty  had  tacitly  ascribed  to 
him  when  she  had  compared  him  with  Satan  Latti- 
mer — and  in  the  next  breath  to  declare  that  Lattimer 
would  not  hesitate  to  "carry  a  woman  to  the 
mountains." 

The  dark  man  had  impressed  her  more  favor 
ably.  In  the  first  place,  the  dark  man  seemed  more 
human.  There  beside  the  railroad  track,  when  he 
had  whispered  to  her,  he  had  betrayed  passion — ex 
cusable  passion,  because  Brannon  had  been  about 
to  hang  an  innocent  man.  Also,  the  dark  man  dis 
liked  Brannon,  which  fact  seemed  to  establish  a 
bond  between  the  dark  man  and  herself. 

At  any  rate,  if  she  was  to  trust  to  her  always- 
reliable  intuitions,  she  must  pin  her  faith  to  the 
dark  man.  She  did  n't  intend  to  be  very  friendly 
with  the  dark  man  either,  but  she  had  a  certain 
curiosity  that  must  be  satisfied.  And  so,  unhesi 
tatingly  yielding  to  the  urge  of  impulse,  she  stepped 
down  from  the  veranda  and  walked  to  the  bunk- 
house. 

The   dark   man   got  up   at   her   approach.     His 


WEST !  57 

movements  were  awkward,  but  she  thought  he 
achieved  his  bow  with  some  grace,  considering  an 
injured  foot,  which  was  heavily  bandaged  and 
which  apparently  would  not  bear  his  weight. 

Also,  there  was  a  respectful  glow  in  his  eyes,  and 
his  voice  was  flatteringly  deferential  and  gentle. 

"So  it 's  you,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
you  'd  gone  with  Betty  Lawson." 

"You  didn't  see  me  standing  on  the  porch?"  she 
asked,  for  she  was  certain  he  had  seen  her. 

"Just  a  minute  ago?"  He  smiled.  "I  reckon  I 
did.  Until  then,  I  thought  you  'd  gone  with  Betty. 
I  did  n't  see  her  go,  though  I  knowed  she  was  goin'. 
I  'd  been  in  the  bunk-house  nursin'  my  foot." 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"Busted  it  ropin'  my  hoss  this  mornin'.  I  reckon 
it  ain't  bruk — twisted  bad,  though — so  's  I  couldn't 
drag  it  with  the  boys.  Tough  luck." 

"Have  you  heard  from  Artwell?"  she  asked, 
guardedly. 

He  grinned  widely.  "Yep.  Les  is  safe.  He 
sent  word  I  was  to  thank  you.  You  done  him  a 
good  turn,  ma'am.  Artwell  never  stole  no  hoss 
from  anybody!"  He  looked  at  her  intently,  search- 
ingly.  "You  ain't  mentioned  to  Brannon  that  I  cut 
Artwell  loose?" 

"Certainly  not!"  she  declared. 

"That 's  right,"  he  said,  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
satisfaction.  "If  Brannon  was  to  find  out  about 


58  WEST ! 

that  deal  he  'd  make  things  mighty  unpleasant  for 
me." 

"I  will  never  tell  him!" 

"Don't  like  him,  eh?"  he  said,  a  touch  of  passion 
in  his  voice.  "Well,  there  's  lots  of  folks  don't  like 
him.  He  's  a  lot  too  fresh." 

She  did  n't  want  to  discuss  Brannon  further. 
She  talked  of  the  corral,  the  horses  in  it,  of  the 
country,  and  of  the  feeling  of  awe  the  contemplation 
of  it  gave  her. 

He  watched  her  curiously,  evidently  a  trifle 
puzzled,  though  plainly  amused  when  she  told  him 
she  was  afraid  of  the  very  bigness  and  strength  of 
everything. 

"Don't  bother  me  that  way,"  he  grinned.  "I 
reckon  that 's  a  new  one  on  me.  Never  heard  of 
anybody  bein'  scared  of  mountains  an'  draws  an' 
trees  an'  flats  an'  such.  Don't  they  raise  such 
things  in  the  East?" 

Of  course,  after  that,  she  knew  he  lacked  imagi 
nation.  She  felt  a  slight  disappointment,  though 
she  consoled  herself  with  the  thought  that  she  had 
heard  persons  rhapsodize  over  big  cities  though  she 
herself  was  so  familiar  with  their  wonders  that  she 
had  ceased  to  marvel  at  them. 

"I  '11  send  Chong  down  to  attend  to  your  foot," 
she  said,  turning  to  go. 

"Shucks;  you  won't,"  he  said,  quickly.  "It 
ain't  nothin'  to  get  excited  over." 


WEST !  59 

"Denver  has  been  hurt  worse,  Miss  Hamilton,"1 
came  a  drawling,  slightly  mocking  voice  from  the 
corner  of  the  bunk-house  nearest  the  ranch-house. 

Josephine  wheeled  stiffly  to  face  Brannon. 

He  was  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  bunk-house, 
his  legs  sprawled  apart,  his  arms  folded  over  his 
chest,  and  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  were  caress 
ing  his  chin.  She  had  seen  him  in  that  position  the 
day  she  had  rescued  Art  well,  just  before  he  had  dis 
covered  the  escape,  while  he  had  been  standing  on 
the  track  with  the  other  men  watching  the  departure 
of  the  train.  The  position  was  characteristic  of  his 
saturnine,  mocking,  and  self-sufficient  attitude 
toward  his  fellow-men. 

He  evidently  had  been  listening.  How  she 
hated  him ! 

"Of  course  you  would  n't  care  for  Mr.  Denver's 
foot!"  she  said,  her  eyes  blazing  with  scorn. 
"Men  who  eavesdrop  are  too  self-centered  to  do 
things  for  the  unfortunate." 

"Mr.  Denver  is  n't  unfortunate,  Miss  Hamil 
ton,"  he  said,  placing  broad  emphasis  on  the 
"mister."  "A  trifle  awkward,  perhaps.  Getting  a 
twisted  foot  just  at  this  time  keeps  him  from  help 
ing  the  other  boys  with  a  tiresome,  dirty  job — - 
branding  on  the  open  range." 

"It  seems  Mr.  Denver  is  n't  the  only  man  who  is 
avoiding  a  tiresome,  dirty  job!"  she  said,  point 
edly. 


60  WEST ! 

"That 's  so.  Maybe  I  stayed  behind  to  keep 
Denver  from  being  lonesome." 

Brannon  was  apparently  unaffected  by  Jose 
phine's  sarcasm.  If  he  felt  any  emotion  at  all,  it 
was  deep,  invisible.  The  glance  he  threw  at  Den 
ver  was  oddly  vacuous,  foreshortened;  it  was  as 
though  he  did  not  see  the  man  at  all. 

Denver,  Josephine  noticed,  was  sitting  tense,  his 
muscles  straining.  His  lips  were  in  a  pout ;  his 
black  eyes  were  agate-hard  and  glittering  with  fury. 

But  it  was  a  fury  Denver  was  trying  hard 
to  suppress.  It  seemed  to  Josephine  that  he 
knew  he  must  suppress  it,  that  he  feared  to  yield 
to  it. 

Also,  she  felt  Brannon  was  secretly  enjoying 
Denver's  struggle  to  control  himself;  she  was 
vaguely  aware  that  some  sort  of  a  contest  was  go 
ing  on  before  her  eyes — something  secret,  subtle — 
-an  underplay  of  terrific,  primitive  forces. 

As  when  she  had  seen  Brannon  the  day  she  had 
rescued  Artwell,  he  seemed  to  dominate,  was 
serenely  confident  of  his  ability  to  command,  to 
control  any  situation  that  might  arise.  She  felt 
again  the  metal-like  inflexibility  of  him,  and  as  be 
fore  the  formidable  smoothness  with  which  he 
clothed  it  irritated  her.  She  was  determined  to 
sting  him  into  exhibiting  passion  of  some  sort. 

"Does  Betty  Lawson  know  you  are  evading  your 
duty?"  she  demanded. 


WEST!  6 1 

"I  don't  know  what  Betty  is  thinking  right  now/* 
he  returned. 

"Oh,  I  presume  that  is  one  way  of  reminding  me 
that  what  you  are  doing  is  none  of  my  business?" 

"Did  Betty  tell  you  I  was  to  report  to  you?"  he 
asked,  his  gaze  steady  as  it  caught  and  held  hers. 

She  laughed  scornfully,  in  a  vain  effort  to  sup 
press  the  fury  seething  in  her  veins.  She  was  con 
scious  of  defeat.  She  somehow  got  the  odd  im 
pression  that  her  words  were  like  hailstones  striking 
a  metal  roof;  they  rattled  but  had  no  visible  effect 
upon  the  solidity  of  the  structure. 

But  she  made  him  see  the  hatred  in  her  eyes ;  she 
had  that  small  satisfaction.  And  she  was  certain 
the  contempt  in  her  manner  when  she  turned  and 
walked  away  from  him  must  make  him  realize  how 
insignificant  an  atom  he  had  become  in  her  estima 
tion. 

That  thought  persisted  until,  reaching  the  ver 
anda,  she  glanced  swiftly  back. 

Brannon  was  facing  her;  he  had  evidently  been 
watching  her.  Quite  plainly  she  could  see  his  face. 
He  was  smiling. 

Josephine  went  into  the  house,  into  the  living- 
room,  where  she  stood,  her  face  flaming  as  she 
yielded  to  the  rage  that  had  seized  her — a  rage 
which  she  knew  was  caused  by  the  knowledge  that 
in  Brannon  she  had  met  a  man  whose  will  was 
stronger  than  her  own. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOSEPHINE  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  in 
the  big  living-room,  brooding  over  her  clash 
with  Brannon.  She  was  too  angry  to  read  any  of 
the  books  whose  covers  peeped  so  alluringly  at  her 
from  the  shelves  of  the  big  bookcase  that  stood 
against  the  west  wall  between  a  low  open  window 
and  the  outside  door;  she  was  too  irritable  to  sew 
or  to  retrim  the  spare  hat  she  had  brought,  which 
she  could  have  made  more  fascinating  with  little 
effort. 

Little  pleasures  and  tasks  of  that  character 
seemed  trifling  when  arrayed  against  the  event  of 
the  morning.  Life — big,  vital,  elemental — was 
more  interesting. 

Her  face  still  flamed  when  after  lunching  in  the 
dining-room  with  the  little,  almond-eyed  Chong 
attending  to  her  wants,  she  returned  to  the  living- 
room  and  stood  for  an  instant  peering  out  of  the 
west  window. 

Denver  and  Brannon  were  not  visible. 

Josephine  selected  a  book  and  went  out  on  the 
veranda,  where  she  dropped  into  a  rocker  and  tried 
to  read,  to  get  her  mind  off  Brannon. 

62 


WEST !  63: 

The  book  was  dull,  uninteresting.  She  closed  it 
noisily.  Her  brows  were  level  and  her  lips  in 
straight  lines  as  she  sat  staring  into  the  northern 
distance  at  the  upward  sweep  of  the  great  green- 
brown  bowl  with  its  splotches  of  brilliant  green  and 
its  contrasting  stretches  of  gray  and  level  alkali 
flats. 

She  meant  to  conquer  Brannon.  She  would 
show  him  that  she  was  not  to  be  intimidated  by  his 
overmastering  self-conceit,  by  his  studied  indiffer 
ence  to  the  wishes  and  the  desires  of  others,  by  his 
absurd  pretensions  to  unassailable  authority,  or  by 
his  ridiculous  self-assurance.  She  would  teach 
him  that  he  could  not — 

At  this  point  her  thoughts  became  incoherent. 
The  green-brown  bowl  became  a  blur,  an  opaque 
sea.  Josephine  was  crying. 

Later  she  dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief 
and  bit  her  lips  in  vexation,  though  her  shoulders, 
still  moving  convulsively,  testified  to  the  intensity 
of  her  emotions.  Her  hatred  of  Brannon  had 
grown  bitter,  savage,  and  its  strength  gave  her  a 
vindictive  joy,  because  once  while  she  had  been  cry 
ing  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  conceding  that 
she  felt  miserable  because  she  liked  Brannon  in 
spite  of  his  indifference  to  her. 

The  afternoon  had  waned  when  she  got  up  and 
went  into  the  house. 

Chong   was   preparing   supper,   and   he    smirked 


64  WEST ! 

engagingly    at    her    as    she    entered    the    kitchen. 

"Gettee  pletty  lonesome,"  he  said.  "Missy  Law- 
son  makee  plenty  noise." 

Josephine  was  lonesome,  far  more  lonesome  than 
she  cared  to  admit.  She  went  to  her  room,  and 
when  she  came  down  Chong  had  the  cloth  laid. 
By  the  time  she  had  finished  eating  the  world  had 
darkened,  and  from  the  veranda  the  mighty  basin 
seemed  to  be  enveloped  in  sinister  shadows. 

Twilight  continued  until  the  last,  piercing  rays 
of  the  sun  vanished  from  the  peaks  of  some  tall 
mountains  on  the  horizon,  and  then  suddenly  the 
basin  vanished  in  a  black  pall  and  Josephine  could 
only  dimly  make  out  the  shapes  of  the  foreman's 
cabin  and  the  bunk-houses. 

She  went  into  the  living-room  and  lit  a  lamp. 

Half  an  hour  later,  hearing  no  sound  from  the 
kitchen,  and  surmising  that  Chong  had  gone  to  bed, 
she  got  up  and  walked  to  the  door,  afflicted  with  a 
dread  premonition  that  some  one  was  prowling 
around  the  house.  She  intended  to  close  the  door 
and  had  grasped  the  knob  when  a  dull,  heavy 
drumming  sound  reached  her  ears. 

Poised,  ready  for  instant  flight,  she  listened. 
The  sound  came  closer,  became  more  distinct.  A 
horse — galloping. 

She  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  aware  that  her  nerves 
had  been  at  an  unusual  tension.  The  coming  of  a 
horseman  probably  indicated  that  one  of  the  men 


WEST!  65 

of  the  outfit  had  ridden  in,  perhaps  to  make  a  re 
port  to  Brannon,  who  had  stayed  behind  "to  keep 
Denver  company." 

Her  lips  curved  scornfully  at  the  thought;  but 
instantly  straightened  again  when  she  heard  the 
thunder  of  hoofs  at  the  edge  of  the  veranda — and 
the  words,  hurled  at  her  ears  out  of  the  windless, 
void: 

"Hullo!     Any  of  the  boys  here?" 

"Why — no —  Yes.  That  is — Denver  and  Bran 
non." 

"Good!"  There  was  satisfaction  in  the  voice — 
a  voice  that  was  gruff  and  deeply  masculine.  Jo 
sephine's  eyes  now  accustomed  to  the  outside  dark 
ness  could  see  the  dim  shapes  of  man  and  horse. 

"Lets  me  out!"  Came  the  voice  again.  "I've 
got  troubles  of  my  own,  an'  I  'm  in  a  hell  of  a 
hurry.  Been  to  Laskar.  Comin'  back  I  looked  in 
at  Ben  Whitman.  His  mother  's  sick — got  a  fit  or 
somethin'.  Ben  wanted  me  to  ride  to  Willets  for 
the  doc.  Told  him  I  would  if  there  was  n't  nobody 
here  to  send.  That 's  all ;  I  reckon  I  '11  drag  it !" 

"Wait!" 

In  the  sudden  excitement  that  assailed  her,  Jo 
sephine  had  gone  out  upon  the  veranda  and  was 
half-way  to  the  horseman  when  she  uttered  the 
command. 

"Talk  fast!"  growled  the  horseman,  impatiently^ 

"Is  Mrs.  Whitman  very  ill?" 


66  WEST ! 

"She  's  sick,  ma'am ;  that 's  all  I  know.  I  got 
a  look  at  her,  an'  she  was  pretty  peaked.  Sufferin' 
bad.  You  'd  better  have  Denver  or  Brannon  cut  it. 
So-long,  ma'am." 

There  was  a  flurry  of  hoofs,  an  indistinct  shape 
hurtling  through  the  night,  and  the  horseman  had 
^vanished. 

For  an  instant  Josephine  stood  motionless  on  the 
veranda  helplessly  undecided  and  profoundly  agi 
tated. 

Brannon  must  go  of  course,  for  Denver  could 
not  ride  thirty-five  miles  with  an  injured  foot. 

She  supposed  Brannon  was  in  his  cabin.  She 
peered  at  it  through  the  darkness  and  saw  a  narrow 
streak  of  light  issuing  from  one  of  the  windows. 
Apparently  Brannon  had  not  heard  the  horseman, 
and  much  as  the  idea  offended  her  she  supposed 
she  would  have  to  go  to  his  cabin  to  apprise  him 
of  what  had  happened. 

She  was  at  the  edge  of  the  gallery  when  she  be 
came  aware  of  a  moving  shape  at  a  little  distance 
out  into  the  darkness. 

""Brannon?"  she  said,  sharply. 

""It 's  me,  ma'am — Denver,"  came  the  latter's 
voice,  low  and  smooth.  "I  heard  a  hoss,  an'  a  man 
talkin'.  I  seen  him  slope.  Reckon  he  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  somewheres,  eh?" 

"It 's  about  Mrs.  Whitman ;  she  's  very  ill.  The 
man  who  was  just  here  told  Ben  Whitman  he  'd 


WEST !  67 

stop  here  and  have  some  one  go  to  Willets  for  the 
doctor.  I  suppose  your  foot — " 

"It 's  in  mighty  bad  shape,  ma'am — an'  pain 
ful.  I  'm  a  heap  sorry,  but  if — " 

"Get  Brannon  then,  will  you  please?  And  do 
hurry!  The  poor  woman  may  be  dying!" 

"Brannon's  here,"  ca-me  the  latter's  voice  from 
somewhere  in  the  outer  darkness.  "What 's  the 
ruckus?  Who  is  dying?" 

"Mrs.  Whitman.  A  man  rode  past  just  a  minute 
ago.  Mrs.  WThitman  needs  a  doctor!" 

Brannon  loomed  out  of  the  darkness,  mounted  the 
edge  of  the  veranda,  and  stood  where  the  faint 
glow  of  light  from  the  open  doorway  shone  on  him. 

Josephine  thrilled  oddly  at  sight  of  him.  It  was 
as  though  a  cool,  calm  breath  of  the  night  swept 
over  her,  stilling  her  excitement,  soothing  her  jan 
gled  nerves.  She  knew  it  was  the  man's  magnetism 
— gripping  her,  drawing  her,  holding  her — the  in 
tense,  vital,  resistless  force  of  him  that  she  had 
felt  all  along. 

She  hated  him  because  he  possessed  the  power 
to  dominate,  to  control  every  situation  without  ap 
parent  effort,  naturally,  as  though  there  was  no 
other  way.  She  hated  him  because  she  felt  he  knew 
just  how  she  fought  against  the  lure  of  him ;  she 
hated  him  just  as  bitterly  for  mentally  acknow 
ledging  that  despite  her  hatred  for  him  he  had 
intrigued  her  interest. 


68  WEST ! 

She  meant  to  control  this  situation,  was  deter 
mined  to  show  him  that  she  resented  his  calm 
assumption  of  power  and  authority. 

Denver  had  limped  his  way  to  the  veranda.  He 
now  stood  near  Brannon,  in  the  light  from  the 
doorway.  He  was  silent;  his  face  was  expressionless, 
though  his  black  eyes  were  alert,  his  gaze  roving 
from  her  to  Brannon,  and  past  her  into  the  living- 
room.  His  foot  was  still  bandaged. 

"Brannon,  I  want  you  to  ride  to  Willets  for  a 
doctor !" 

Josephine's  voice  was  cold,  authoritative,  though 
she  was  aware  that  in  it  was  a  hint  of  vindictive- 
ness. 

She  was  also  aware  of  the  dead  silence  that 
followed  her  words.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had 
known  Brannon  she  detected  emotion  in  his  eyes. 
She  saw  them  narrow  with  a  pin-point  of  sardonic 
derision;  saw  his  lips  curve  slightly,  as  with  grim 
amusement.  The  expression  was  transient,  subtle, 
and  before  she  could  fix  it  clearly  in  her  mind  for 
future  consideration  it  had  gone,  and  he  was  watch 
ing  her  calmly,  attentively. 

"I  think  you  do  not  understand,  Brannon,"  she 
said  coldly.  "Mrs.  Whitman  is  very  ill  and  needs  a 
doctor  at  once.  While  you  are  standing  there  doing 
nothing  she  may  be  dying!" 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  with  my  hearing,  Miss 
Hamilton,"  said  Brannon.  "But  I  want  to  remind 


WEST!  69 

you  that  I  am  still  issuing  orders  for  the  Triangle 
L.  One  boss  is  all  that  any  ranch  needs.  Denver 
will  go  for  the  doctor.  While  he  's  there  the  doc 
can  fix  up  his  foot." 

Josephine's  first  sensation  was  that  of  acute 
shame  and  mortification.  The  shock,  her  astonish 
ment,  the  incredible  fact  that  Brannon  had  dared 
say  such  a  thing  to  her,  dismayed  her,  brought  on 
mental  incoherence. 

There  followed  a  surge  of  furious  rage  and  re 
sentment  so  violent  that  it  took  her  close  to  Brannon, 
so  close  that  inches  separated  them  when  she  spoke, 
and  her  blazing,  scornful  eyes  were  swimming 
with  contempt  unutterable. 

"I  wonder  if  you  realize  how  much  I  hate  you, 
Brannon,"  she  said  steadily,  despite  the  tumult  of 
passion  which  had  seized  her.  "I  want  you  to 
know  it.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  chose  you  to 
go  for  the  doctor  because  I  did  n't  want  to  be  alone 
with  you.  I  hate  you,  despise,  and  distrust  you! 
And  if  Denver  rides  for  the  doctor  I  shall  go  with 
him !" 

Brannon's  level  gaze  had  not  wavered.  She  saw 
a  faint  smile  flicker  for  an  instant  on  his  lips,  saw 
his  eyes  deepen  with  a  subtle  meaning  that  she 
could  not  comprehend.  Then  he  said  shortly, 
"That  seems  to  be  plenty" ;  turned,  stepped  off  the 
veranda,  and  vanished  into  the  darkness  in  the 
direction  of  the  corral. 


DENVER  said  nothing  after  Brannon  went. 
He  turned,  peered  after  Brannon  until  the 
latter  could  no  longer  be  seen;  then  limped  to  the 
edge  of  the  gallery  and  seated  himself,  leaning  com 
fortably  against  a  column. 

Josephine  did  not  move.  She  stood  where  Bran 
non  had  left  her,  rigid,  still  furious,  but  feeling  a 
vicious  satisfaction  over  the  consciousness  that  she 
had  told  Brannon  exactly  what  she  thought  of  him. 

Brannon  had  not  said  he  would  go ;  but  when  she 
heard  hoof-beats  from  the  direction  of  the  corral, 
gradually  diminishing  into  the  distance,  she  realized 
that  she  had  won. 

Still  she  did  not  move  for  a  long  time,  though 
she  strained  her  eyes  in  an  effort  to  see  Brannon 
riding  away.  But  an  impenetrable  curtain  of 
darkness  hid  Brannon  from  view. 

In  an  effort  to  quiet  the  turmoil  of  conflicting 
emotions  that  seethed  within  her,  Josephine  walked 
to  the  far  end  of  the  veranda,  eastward,  where  she 
stood  for  a  time  staring  into  the  darkness.  Her 
emotions  were  a  curious  mixture  of  humiliation, 

rage,  and  regret. 

70 


WEST!  71 

She  kept  seeing  Brannon's  face  when  he  had 
stood  before  her  on  the  veranda.  She  tried  to  read 
the  strange  smile  that  had  appeared  on  his  lips  when 
she  had  acquainted  him  with  her  real  feelings 
toward  him;  she  endeavored  to  analyze  the  subtle 
something  that  had  been  in  his  eyes. 

She  was  convinced  that  he  had  not  believed  her 
when  she  had  told  him  she  hated  him,  for  the  smile 
on  his  lips  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  had  betrayed 
him. 

Nor  had  he  seemed  angry  or  hurt.  He  had  been 
amused ;  that  was  it.  But  the  amusement  had  been 
grim,  as  though  he  possessed  knowledge  of  a  sort 
that  would  astonish  her  if  he  chose  to  tell  her  of  it, 
knowledge  of  something  secret  and  clandestine,  of 
tragic  or  threatening  import. 

She  stood  for  a  long  time  at  the  eastern  end.  of 
the  veranda;  how  long  she  did  not  know.  But  she 
started  after  a  while,  aware  that  she  had  been  com 
pletely  engrossed  in  her  mental  picture  of  Brannon's 
face.  Over  the  eastern  rim  of  the  mammoth  basin 
had  come  a  big,  full,  yellow  moon;  and  she  was 
bathed  in  the  rich,  mellow,  effulgent  glow. 

The  veranda  was  flooded  with  golden  light.  Far 
out  in  the  basin  toward  Willets  the  golden  flood 
stretched,  sweeping  the  ridges  and  hills  and  touch 
ing  the  flats  with  subdued  radiance. 

She  did  not  wonder  that  she  could  not  see  Bran- 
non;  she  must  have  stood  at  the  veranda  end  for 


72  WEST ! 

more  than  half  an  hour,  and  Brannon  would  have 
gone  many  miles. 

Still  she  searched  the  northern  slope  of  the  basin 
for  sight  of  him  and  sighed  distinctly  when  she 
failed  to  see  him. 

Brannon's  cabin  was  now  in  plain  view;  it  was 
clearly  outlined;  and  one  window,  where  she  had 
observed  the  light  streak  immediately  after  the 
rider  from  Whitman's  had  gone,  reflected  the  huge, 
golden  disk  swimming  above  the  horizon  behind 
her. 

Denver,  she  saw  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction, 
was  still  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  veranda,  where 
he  had  gone  after  the  departure  of  Brannon.  It 
was  evident  that  Denver  meant  to  remain  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  ranch-house  until  Brannon  returned. 

She  spoke  to  Denver  as  she  reached  the  door  on 
her  way  to  the  living-room,  asking  him  if  he  had 
seen  Brannon. 

"No,"  he  answered  slowly;  "I  reckon  he  must 
have  drug  it." 

The  expression  "drug  it"  meant  no  doubt,  that 
Brannon  had  ridden  fast.  She  wondered  how  long 
it  would  take  a  good  rider — Brannon,  for  instance 
— to  reach  Willets;  and  she  speculated  upon  Ben 
Whitman's  ability  properly  to  care  for  his  mother 
until  the  arrival  of  the  doctor.  Thirty-five  miles! 
That  meant  seventy  miles  altogether.  It  also 


WEST !  73 

meant  that  Mrs.  Whitman's  sufferings  would  last 
many  hours. 

Entering  the  living-room,  she  stood  for  some 
minutes  beside  a  big  center-table,  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Whitman,  of  the  woman's  white,  tragic  face  and  her 
big  eyes,  eloquent  of  suffering  and  filled  with  the 
reflection  of  heroic  patience. 

She  looked  at  the  comfortable  chairs  in  the  room. 
They  invited  her,  but  looking  at  them  she  saw  duty 
beckoning.  It  was  ten  miles  to  the  Whitman  cabin, 
and  the  trail  was  tortuous  to  one  unaccustomed  to 
riding;  but  she  had  not  been  standing  at  the  table 
for  many  minutes  before  she  became  aware  that  she 
had  decided  to  go  to  Mrs.  Whitman. 

Denver  would  know  the  trail,  and  Denver  could 
be  depended  upon. 

She  turned,  intending  to  go  to  the  door  and  ask 
Denver  to  get  the  horses  ready. 

Denver  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

He  was  standing  on  one  foot,  the  injured  foot 
resting  lightly  on  the  threshold  of  the  doorway ;  his 
arms  were  braced  against  the  jambs,  the  fingers  of 
his  hands  outspread  in  a  way  that  made  Josephine 
wonder  at  the  bigness  of  them. 

A  change  had  come  over  Denver.  At  the  bunk- 
house  that  day  his  manner  had  been  respectful, 
deferential.  Now  he  seemed  curiously  bold  and 
familiar.  His  attitude  expressed  impudence.  His 


74  WEST ! 

lips  were  slightly  apart  in  a  loose,  whimsical,  wanton 
smile;  his  eyes  were  hard  as  agate  and  gleaming 
with  a  passion  that  she  had  not  seen  in  the  eyes  of 
any  man. 


CHAPTER  IX 

T  N  Josephine's  eyes  Denver  had  become  in- 
•*•  vested  with  a  new  personality.  He  was  at  this 
instant  the  material  agent  of  those  invisible  dangers 
which  had  threatened  her  since  her  first  day  at  the 
Lawson  ranch.  He  was  danger  itself,  evolved 
from  her  vagrant  imagination;  he  was  the  fulfil 
ment  of  the  dread  promise  that  the  waste  places  had 
held  out  to  her.  In  his  eyes  glowed  the  cruelty  of 
the  country;  in  his  manner  was  a  ruthlessness  that 
the  grim,  rugged  strength  of  the  land  had  suggested 
to  her. 

She  understood  now  that  she  had  made  a  mistake 
in  not  permitting  Brannon  to  send  Denver  to  Wil- 
lets.  Brannon  was  the  man  she  really  trusted,  but 
she  had  permitted  her  foolish  prejudices  to  influence 
her.  She  knew,  too,  that  Brannon  had  been  aware 
that  she  was  making  a  mistake;  it  had  been  that 
knowledge,  secret  and  clandestine,  that  she  had  seen 
in  his  eyes  when  he  had  stood  before  her  on  the 
veranda.  Brannon  knew  what  kind  of  a  man  Den 
ver  was,  and  he  had  wanted  to  apprise  her  of  that 
knowledge.  That  was  why  he  had  rebuked  her, 
why  he  had  insulted  her  with  his  cold  statement  that 

75 


76  WEST ! 

the  Triangle  L  did  not  need  more  than  one  boss. 

As  this  conviction  burst  upon  her  she  felt  her 
knees  weaken,  and  for  an  instant  they  threatened  to 
give  way  under  her. 

Denver  must  have  seen  some  evidence  of  the 
doubt  and  dread  that  were  torturing  her,  for  as  she 
watched  him,  her  eyes  slowly  widening,  her  face 
paling,  she  saw  him  grin  hugely. 

"Ketchin'  on,"  he  said.  "I  was  wonderin'  if 
you  understood  what  Brannon  meant.  Did  n't  give 
it  a  thought,  eh?  Used  him  like  a  dog.  That 's  a 
woman  for  you.  They  ain't  got  no  sense,  which 
is  why  men  have  such  an  easy  time  with  'em.  If 
you  go  to  gettin'  fresh  with  me  I  '11  guzzle  you! 
Understand  ?'" 

She  was  not  more  than  three  or  four  paces  from 
him,  and  when  she  saw  him  move  forward  she  was 
certain  that  he  could  not  mean  to  harm  her,  despite 
his  menacing  manner,  for  she  knew  Chong  was  in 
the  house ;  and  she  had  heard  Betty  say  that  Chong 
was  as  much  a  man  in  a  fight  as  any  of  the  cow 
boys  in  the  outfit,  that  he  was  gentlemanly  and 
brave  and  dependable. 

But  she  did  not  want  to  call  to  Chong;  she  did  n't 
want  violence  in  any  form,  and  she  had  a  hope  that 
Denver  would  not  press  her  too  far. 

She  delayed  retreating  until  Denver  had  taken 
two  steps  toward  her,  for  she  had  been  thinking  that 
his  injured  ankle  would  retard  his  movements; 


WEST !  77 

and  if  he  really  did  mean  to  harm  her  she  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  evading  him  until  she  could 
call  to  Chong. 

She  could  not  believe  that  any  man  would  dare 
meditate  the  thing  that  plainly  was  in  Denver's 
eyes. 

She  gasped  when  she  saw  that  he  used  the  injured 
foot  as  well  as  he  used  the  other.  The  realization 
came  tardily,  for  as  she  at  last  moved  backward 
Denver  reached  out  a  long  arm  and  grasped  her 
right  wrist,  jerking  her  violently  toward  him. 

For  an  awful  instant  she  was  too  stunned  to 
struggle,  though  her  astonishment  was  greater  than 
the  fear  she  felt. 

Denver  laughed. 

"You're  sensible,"  he  said;  "it  ain't  no  use 
fightin'." 

It  was  evident  that  he  took  her  passivity  to  mean 
that  she  had  surrendered,  whereas  she  was  merely 
quiescent  until  she  could  gather  her  strength  and 
her  senses  into  some  sort  of  coordination,  until  she 
could  get  back  the  breath  that  seemed  to  have  left 
her. 

Then  she  screamed  and  suddenly  braced  her 
hands  against  Denver's  chest,  pushing  him  from 
her  with  all  her  strength. 

Miraculously,  it  seemed,  the  movement  freed 
her. 

For  Denver's  muscles  had  suddenly  become  limp. 


78  WEST ! 

She  heard  him  catch  his  breath  with  a  great  gasp, 
saw  his  face  whiten  and  his  eyes  widen  as  though 
he  were  staring  at  some  dread  apparition. 

She  forgot  she  was  free.  In  her  astonishment 
she  stood  motionless,  watching  the  miracle  of  the 
man's  sudden  transformation.  For  he  was  now 
cringing  away  from  her,  seemingly  trying  to  con 
tract  his  body,  apparently  striving  to  hide  his  bulk 
from  somebody  or  something  behind  her.  She  saw 
his  hands  slowly  rising,  the  fingers  spread  wide,  the 
palms  toward  her. 

As  she  wheeled  her  thoughts  went  to  Chong. 
The  man  had  vindicated  Betty's  confidence  in  him; 
he  had  come  at  just  the  right  time. 

Chong  was  not  behind  her.  Framed  in  the  open 
window  between  the  bookcase  and  the  corner,  one 
hand  holding  back  the  lace  curtains,  a  heavy  pistol 
rigid  in  the  other,  was  Brannon. 

Josephine  stood  motionless,  rigid.  She  was  glad, 
unutterably  glad  to  see  Brannon,  and  the  shudder 
ing,  dry,  gasping  sobs  that  shook  her  were  born  of 
gratitude  too  great  for  words. 

Yet  she  did  not  change  her  position,  for  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  light  in  Brannon's  eyes.  He 
meant  to  kill  Denver. 

She  could  feel  Denver  behind  her;  without  look 
ing  at  him  she  knew  he  was  cringing,  concealing 
himself  as  much  as  possible  from  the  grim  death 
at  the  window. 


He  had  come  at  just  the  right  time 


WEST !  79 

An  instant  before  the  appearance  of  Brannon,  Jo 
sephine's  passionate  hatred  of  Denver  had  been  so 
great  that  she  would  have  yielded  to  an  overwhelm 
ing  yearning  to  take  his  life  if  she  could  have  laid 
her  hands  upon  a  weapon.  Now,  with  Brannon 
framed  in  the  window,  and  satisfied  beyond  all 
doubt  that  she  was  safe,  there  came  a  swift  reaction. 
For  the  knowledge  that  Brannon  was  near  seemed  to 
take  the  tragedy  out  of  the  incident,  made  it  seem 
commonplace,  trivial.  She  felt  now  that  the  only 
significance  she  could  attach  to  the  affair  was  the 
shock  to  her  self-esteem — ashamed  consciousness 
that  she  had  almost  become  a  victim  of  Denver's 
passion. 

She  no  longer  wondered  why  men  in  this  country 
had  applied  the  sobriquet  "Steel"  to  Brannon.  His 
face,  in  the  light  from  the  lamp  on  the  center-table, 
seemed  to  have  been  molded  from  that  metal.  She 
felt  she  could  see  the  gray-white  inflexible  texture 
of  it  beneath  the  bronzed  skin.  His  lips  were  in 
straight,  hard,  rigid  lines,  and  his  eyes  were  pools 
in  which  glowed  lights  and  points  of  fire  that  fasci 
nated  her;  they  coalesced,  deepened,  became  defi 
nitely  centered  upon  her  own.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  mingled  awe  and  wonder. 

"Step  aside,  Miss  Hamilton,"  came  his  voice, 
cold  with  authority,  though  strangely  without 
passion ;  "I  'm  going  to  kill  that  yellow  coyote  be 
hind  you!" 


8o  WEST ! 

She  did  not  move.  She  meant  to  save  Denver. 
Not  that  Denver  did  not  deserve  death  for  his  attack 
on  her,  but  because  the  thought  of  violence  was  re 
pugnant  to  her,  because  her  objection  to  the  principle 
of  unauthorized  death-dealing  was  as  strong  now 
as  it  had  been  in  the  case  of  Les  Artwell.  If  there 
was  a  perverse  passion  in  her  heart  that  would  not 
permit  her  to  yield  to  Brannon's  will  it  was  be 
trayed  in  the  defiant  look  she  gave  him. 

"You  sha'n't  kill  him ;  I  won't  have  it !"  she  de 
clared.  "Why  are  you  always  so  eager  to  kill 
some  one?  Is  there  no  other  way  to  punish  men 
for  crimes  like — this?" 

She  saw  Brannon's  hard  lips  curve  into  a  curious, 
mirthless  smile,  and  at  the  same  instant  she  felt 
Denver  move  swiftly.  Assailed  with  a  sudden 
presentiment  that  Denver  intended  to  shoot  Bran- 
non,  she  turned  just  in  time  to  grip  his  wrist  as  he 
drew  at  the  pistol  at  his  hip. 

Fighting  to  prevent  him  from  drawing  the 
weapon,  she  heard  a  slight  sound  at  her  side  and  a 
man's  bulk  loomed  close ;  an  arm  flashed  by  her  face 
with  incredible  swiftness,  the  sleeve  brushing  her 
face,  burning  into  the  flesh  as  it  passed.  She  saw 
Denver  reeling  away,  his  eyes  closed,  his  knees 
sagging,  his  arms  hanging  limp. 

She  watched  Denver  go  down,  flat  on  his  back 
near  the  south  wall  of  the  room,  lax,  unconscious; 


WEST!  81 

and  with  the  swift  glance  she  took  at  him  she  saw 
a  bruise  and  a  trickle  of  red  on  his  forehead. 

When  she  turned,  Brannon  was  standing  close 
by,  looking  down  at  Denver.  Brannon's  heavy 
pistol,  the  barrel  gripped  tightly  in  his  right  hand, 
had  proved  an  effective  weapon. 

Josephine  did  not  speak,  and  Brannon  did  not 
look  at  her,  though  the  girl  watched  him,  awed,  fas 
cinated  by  the  repressed  fury  that  showed  in  his 
pale  face  and  in  his  blazing  eyes.  As  he  stood 
watching  Denver,  the  girl  sensed  the  terrible  force 
of  Brannon's  passions;  she  felt  she  was  seeing 
Brannon  as  men  knew  Brannon. 

She  feared  he  would  complete  his  work,  and  when 
Denver  began  to  show  signs  of  returning  conscious 
ness  she  stepped  toward  Brannon,  intending  to  pre 
vent  further  violence.  She  halted,  though,  when 
Brannon,  without  looking  at  her,  waved  a  depre 
cating  hand  in  her  direction,  as  though  to  say  he 
knew  what  was  in  her  mind  and  that  he  had  no 
intention  of  bothering  Denver  further. 

In  silence  they  watched  Denver  rise,  swaying 
unsteadily — a  beaten,  whipped,  sullen  beast  masque 
rading  in  man's  shape. 

When  Denver  at  last  succeeded  in  straightening 
himself  against  the  wall,  Brannon  spoke,  breaking 
the  silence  of  the  room  with  the  curt  order:  "Den 
ver,  thank  the  lady!" 


82  WEST ! 

He  waited,  watching  cynically,  while  Denver 
stepped  forward  and  muttered  something  unintel 
ligible.  Brannon's  lips  twitched  when  Josephine 
turned  her  back  upon  the  man. 

Josephine  did  not  change  her  position  until  she 
heard  Denver  cross  the  veranda,  until  she  saw  Bran- 
non  walk  to  the  window,  part  the  curtains,  and  look 
out  into  the  moonlight.  When  Brannon  finally 
turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
dry,  quizzical  smile,  she  knew  that  Denver  had  gone ; 
and  she  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  weak,  nerveless, 
almost  hysterical. 

Brannon  expected  her  to  faint  or  go  into  some 
form  of  hysteria;  and  when  she  sank  into  the  chair 
and  sat  there  trembling,  her  hands  pressed  tightly 
over  her  eyes,  he  smiled  with  slight  contempt.  The 
heave  and  tumult  of  her  bosom  revealed  to  him  how 
desperately  she  was  fighting  to  retain  her  self- 
control. 

Headstrong,  he  thought  her;  obstinately  wilful. 
She  rather  deserved  her  present  punishment  for 
disregarding  his  orders  regarding  the  sending  of 
Denver  to  Willets  and  for  her  determination  to 
oppose  him. 

He  had  little  respect  for  the  aggressive  spirit  she 
had  exhibited,  even  though  since  the  first  day  she 
had  occupied  a  prominent  place  in  his  thoughts,  and 
he  had  been  haunted  by  her  eyes  and  her  hair,  and 


WEST !  83 

captivated  by  the  firm,  white  curves  of  her  chin  and 
throat. 

She  was  beautiful,  distractingly  beautiful;  and 
were  it  not  for  her  aggressive  self-reliance  and  her 
apparent  devotion  to  the  principle  of  doing  as  she 
pleased  without  regard  for  the  desires  of  others,  he 
might  have  yielded  to  certain  amorous  impulses  in 
stead  of  almost  succumbing  to  a  malicious  desire 
to  antagonize  her. 

The  last  was  a  satanic  impulse  tempered  with 
pity.  As  he  watched  her  now  he  felt  sorry  for  her, 
though  he  was  aware  of  a  yearning  to  remind  her 
of  several  things  that  had  not  rested  well  on  his 
mind — for  one  thing  her  frank  declaration  that  she 
despised  and  hated  him. 

But  though  there  was  malice  in  his  heart  toward 
her,  a  force  that  made  his  pulses  pound  heavily 
drove  him  to  her  side.  Before  he  was  aware  of 
what  he  was  doing  he  had  placed  a  hand  on  her 
bowed  head  and  was  stroking  the  wonderfully  soft 
hair;  was  watching  with  grim  pity  how  her  slender 
shoulders  shook  and  quivered  from  the  intense 
emotion  she  was  experiencing. 

But  though  tenderness  surged  through  him,  the 
malicious  devil  dominated,  drove  him  to  gentle, 
mocking  speech: 

"You  trusted  the  wrong  man,  eh?" 

Somehow  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 


84  WEST ! 

world  for  Brannon  to  stroke  her  hair,  even  though 
no  other  man  had  ever  attempted  it.  And  Brannon 
would  never  know  how  his  touch  calmed  her,  how 
it  made  her  pulses  leap.  It  was  as  though  through 
his  finger-tips  she  could  feel  his  strong  personality 
tugging  at  her.  Still  she  resented  the  touch,  was 
furious  with  herself  for  tolerating  the  familiarity. 
And  yet  the  touch  thrilled  her.  She  was  conscious 
of  a  vicious  satisfaction  when  he  spoke,  taunting 
her  because  of  her  faulty  judgment;  she  felt  a 
thrill  of  delight  over  the  prospect  of  quarreling  with 
him. 

"Please  stop  pawing  my  hair!"  she  said  coldly. 
"And  I  don't  think  you  are  very  gentlemanly  in 
calling  attention  to  the  mistake  I  made!  How  was 
I  to  know?  You  certainly  did  not  seem  to  be  very 
trustworthy,  with  your  miserable  habit  of  looking 
at  one  without  seeming  to  see  one.  And  if  you 
had  n't  been  so  superior  and  aloof  perhaps  I  should 
have — should  not  have  spoken  as  I  did  when  I  was 
talking  to  you  on  the  veranda !" 

She  had  got  out  of  the  chair  and  was  standing 
beside  it.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were 
brilliant  with  passion;  she  was  rigid,  defiant,  and 
her  satisfaction  over  the  fact  that  she  was  having 
it  out  with  him  was  apparent. 

Brannon  also  was  enjoying  the  clash.  But  his 
enjoyment  was  deeper,  secret.  He  presented  a 
calm  exterior,  masking  his  emotions,  which  were 


WEST]  85 

varied,  though  centering  upon  the  malicious  thought 
that  he  had  betrayed  her  into  exhibiting  temper. 

"You  've  learned  something,  Miss  Hamilton,"  he 
said;  "you've  learned  that  a  man  doesn't  always 
mean  what  he  says.  I  was  trying  to  make  you 
understand  that  it  was  n't  safe  to  leave  Denver  at 
the  ranch  with  you.  But  you  were  determined  to 
have  your  way." 

"Indeed!  How  am  I  to  believe  you?  How  did 
you  know  that  Denver  meditated  what — what  he 
attempted?"  Her  eyes  were  alight  with  scorn. 

"I  know  Denver.  His  foot  was  n't  hurt.  I 
stayed  at  the  ranch  to-day  because  he  stayed.  I 
knew  he  was  up  to  some  deviltry.  I  was  pretty 
close  when  Callahan  of  the  Star  stopped  here  to 
night  ;  I  'd  been  hanging  around,  keeping  an  eye  on 
Denver,  when  Callahan  came." 

"Callahan?" 

"Callahan  was  the  rider  who  told  you  about  Mrs. 
Whitman.  The  Star  is  beyond  the  rim  of  the 
basin." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed  astonished  to  discover  that 
while  she  had  sat  in  fancied  security  in  the  ranch- 
house,  this  man  had  anticipated  her  danger  and  had 
taken  steps  to.  protect  her.  She  was  grateful,  and 
yet  she  was  disappointed  to  learn  that  her  obliga 
tions  to  him  did  not  end  with  his  opportune  appear 
ance  at  the  window.  Watching  him,  she  got  the 
impression  that  he  was  omniscient  and  possessed  of 


86  WEST ! 

an  uncanny  power  to  anticipate  events ;  that  he  had 
reason  to  have  confidence  in  himself;  that  he  was  a 
deep,  subtle  thinker  with  a  certain,  unerring  compre 
hension  of  human  nature.  For  an  instant  she  was 
afraid  of  him;  alarmed  that  his  knowledge  of  her 
self  included  a  suspicion  of  her  reluctant  admiration 
of  him,  which  she  had  not  admitted  to  herself  until 
her  passive  acceptance  of  his  caress  a  few  minutes 
ago. 

She  had  not  meant  to  admit  that  she  admired 
him;  she  was  angry  at  herself  because  she  had  been 
weak  enough  even  to  entertain  the  thought.  Until 
the  instant  she  had  felt  his  hand  on  her  hair  she  had 
assured  herself  that  the  appeal  he  had  made  to  her 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  perfectly  natural  respect  for 
his  strength,  such  as  one  might  feel  for  any  man 
who  betrayed  mental  qualities  that  would  distin 
guish  him  from  the  ordinary.  In  her  mind  he  was 
merely  a  symbol  of  the  country;  he  had  taken  on  the 
attributes  of  his  environment — the  rugged  strength, 
the  sinister,  prepared  readiness  of  the  land  to  betray 
its  grim  promise  of  death  and  violence,  the  lurking 
threat,  the  secret,  cynical  knowledge  of  irresistible 
power.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  one  day  Brannon's 
strength  would  break  down  her  reserve,  that  her 
will,  fighting  his  to  the  last — as  it  was  fighting  now 
— would  yield  to  his.  She  did  not  mean  to  sur 
render  to  him.  The  mastering,  elemental  strength 
he  had  revealed  whenever  her  will  clashed  with  his; 


WEST !  87 

the  grim,  ruthless  potentialities  lurking  behind  his 
smooth,  metal-like  exterior;  the  crudities  of  life  in 
this  section  of  the  world;  the  naked  threat  of  cru 
elty  that  was  borne  to  her  upon  every  breeze  that 
swept  her  face — all  these  she  shrank  from.  Sur 
render,  even  in  the  slightest  degree,  would  mean 
she  would  have  to  face  the  alternative  of  giving  up 
the  things  that  had  become  dear  to  her — the  joys 
of  civilization,  the  delight  of  living  among  people 
whose  natures  were  as  her  own ;  the  companionship 
of  men  and  women  whose  destinies  were  woven  with 
her  own;  the  refinements,  the  gentle  things  of  life; 
material  things — bathrooms,  electric  lights,  the  gay, 
animated  streets,  theatres,  dances,  ball-games,  mid 
night  suppers,  and  the  wonderful  atmosphere  of  it 
all — all  exclusively  Eastern. 

In  the  light  of  life  as  she  had  known  it,  and  in 
the  alluring  picture  she  now  drew  of  the  smooth, 
calm,  pleasurable  life  of  the  future,  Brannon,  despite 
his  rugged  strength  and  positive  magnetism,  despite 
the  fact  that  the  lure  of  him  had  seized  her,  was  not 
worth  the  sacrifice,  even  if  she  were  seriously  to 
consider  falling  in  love  with  him. 

She  was  glad  to  know  that  deep  in  her 
heart  she  still  hated  him ;  she  felt  a  vicious  satis 
faction  over  the  conviction  that  she  got  a  vindic 
tive  joy  out  of  disagreeing  with  him,  in  mocking 
him. 

"So  you  were  spying,"  she  said.     "And  you  saw 


88  WEST ! 

the  rider — Callahan?  And  you  heard  what  he  said 
to  me,  I  suppose?" 

He  nodded. 

"Then  when  you  came  to  the  veranda  and  asked 
me  what  was  wrong,  you  were  merely  pretending 
that  you  had  n't  heard." 

"That 's  it." 

''Why  did  you  pretend?" 

"I  wanted  to  get  a  chance  to  tell  you  to  send 
Denver  to  Willets." 

"But  I  did  n't  send  Denver,"  she  smiled,  trium 
phantly.  "I  sent  you.  Why  didn't  you  go?" 

"You  know  why." 

"But  what  about  Mrs.  Whitman?"  she  inquired 
sharply. 

"I  sent  Chong." 

"Chong!" 

His  eyes  narrowed  at  her  start  of  surprise. 

"Then,"  she  said,  accusation  in  her  voice,  "why 
then,  you  must  have  been  near  the  house  all  the  time, 
even  when  Denver — "  She  paused  and  looked 
sharply  at  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  answering  the  question  in  her 
eyes;  "I  saw  it  all,  from  the  window,  from  behind 
the  lace  curtains." 

"Then  why  did  n't  you — why  did  you  permit  him 
to — to — "  She  broke  off,  her  face  flushing  with 
indignation. 

"When  a  woman  says  she  hates  a  man — " 


WEST !  89 

"Brute!"     She  stood  rigid,  her  hands  clenched. 

"And  despises  him — " 

"Coward !"    Her  eyes  were  glazing  pools  of  scorn. 

"And  deliberately  sends  him  away  while  she  keeps 
a  yellow  coyote  near  her,  to  protect  her — trusting 
him,  and  making  the  other  man  feel — " 

"O  coward!     Coward!" 

"Like  he  does  n't  seem  good  enough  even  to  walk 
on,"  Brannon  continued,  as  though  he  did  not 
hear  her  scathing  epithets,  "it  was  about  time  to 
permit  the  coyote  to  demonstrate  his  trustworthy 
qualities." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  stood  facing  him,  scorn 
ineffable  in  her  manner. 

"Nor  was  it  her  first  offence  against  the  despic 
able  tyrant,"  went  on  Brannon  dryly.  "One  day, 
beside  a  railroad  track,  she  placed  her  faith  in  the 
coyote,  to  the  extent  of  taking  his  word  concerning 
the  innocence  of  a  horse-thief." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  astonished. 

"Denver  talked,  Miss  Hamilton ;  such  men  can't 
keep  secrets.  He  told  a  crony  in  Willets,  and  it 
got  to  me.  There  was  a  whispered  conference  be 
tween  Denver  and  the  lady — a  compact  to  get  Art- 
well  on  the  train.  The  lady  was  very  clever,  de 
lightfully  clever.  I  know  that.  Also,  I  have 
known  for  some  time.  I  knew  it  when  I  reported 
to  Betty  Lawson.  But  I  did  n't  tell  the  whole  truth 
in  that  report." 


90  WEST ! 

"But  you  will  now,  I  suppose?"  Her  face  was 
flaming  with  the  red  tinge  of  shame. 

"You  know  better,  I  think,"  he  said  slowly. 

He  saw  a  signal  of  distress  in  her  eyes;  they 
were  filling  with  guilty  embarrassment,  while  color 
slowly  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks.  She  took  a 
backward  step  and  rested  one  hand  on  the  center- 
table,  glancing  downward,  her  lashes  on  her  cheeks. 

"Good  night,  Miss  Hamilton,"  came  Brannon's 
voice. 

She  heard  his  step  as  he  crossed  the  room,  and 
looked  up  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  back  as 
he  went  out  of  the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  X 

BRANNON  had  taken  only  two  or  three  steps 
on  the  veranda  when  he  heard  the  girl's  voice 
coming  sharply,  peremptorily,  through  the  open 
doorway  behind  him.  He  halted,  turned,  and 
went  back,  coming  to  a  pause  in  the  doorway,  where 
he  looked  inquiringly  at  her. 

She  was  sitting  beside  the  center-table.  Her  face 
was  very  white  and  her  eyes  were  wide  with  concern. 

"Yes?"     said  Brannon. 

"Brannon,"   she   said,   "where   are   you   going?" 

Her  voice  was  low,  tense ;  but  Brannon's  sharp, 
probing  glance  at  her  left  him  puzzled  to  account 
for  her  evident  agitation. 

"Why,  I  said  'good-night,'  Miss  Hamilton.  I 
don't  remember  that  I  thought  of  going  anywhere 
in  particular.  I  Ve  some  accounts  to  look  after — 
then,  bed." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  were  n't  thinking  of  any 
thing  else?" 

"Pretty  certain." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  watched  him  with 
steady,  searching  eyes  that  were  alert  to  catch  the 
faintest  sign  of  insincerity  in  his  own. 

91 


92  WEST ! 

"You  seemed  to  be  in  such — such  a  hurry,"  sh^ 
said,  haltingly.  "I — I  thought,  perhaps,  you  had 
something — er — definite  in  mind.  Had  you?" 

"I  think  not."  His  interest  was  aroused,  though 
he  concealed  it  from  her.  It  had  become  evident 
to  him  that  she  had  a  deep  motive  in  questioning 
him  regarding  his  intentions. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  just  a  minute?"  she  asked. 
"I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  removed  his  hat,  crossed  the  room,  and  seated 
himself  in  a  chair  near  her.  He  watched  her  in 
silence — an  amused,  cynical  silence. 

To  his  astonishment  she  sat  erect  in  her  chair  and 
leaned  toward  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  in  the 
grip  of  some  intense  emotion. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "when  you  went  out  of  that 
door  you  intended  to  find  Denver.  You  meant  to 
kill  him!" 

"I  reckon  not." 

"Brannon,  don't  lie  to  me.  You  did  mean  to 
kill  him ;  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes !"  She  was  vehement, 
positive. 

Brannon  was  silent,  watching  her  steadily,  won 
dering  what  he  had  done  to  betray  his  intentions  to 
her.  He  had  thought  he  had  concealed  his  impulse. 

"There!"  she  said;  "I  knew  it!  Brannon,  I  won't 
have  it!  Understand?" 

"Denver  deserves  to  be  killed." 

"He    does  n't !"    she    denied.     "That   position    is 


WEST !  93 

indefensible;  it  isn't  lawful.  Men  are  punished 
for  the  things  they  do  and  not  for  the  things  they 
attempt  to  do.  What  may  have  been  in  Denver's 
mind  I  do  not  know ;  the  fact  is  that  his  only  offense 
was  in  seizing  me." 

"Out  here  we  judge  a  man  by  his  intentions,  Miss 
Hamilton.  Denver  deserves  to  be  killed  for  what 
he  had  in  mind." 

"Then  why  did  n't  you  kill  him  earlier  in  the 
day,  Brannon?  You  say  you  knew  what  he  meant 
to  do?" 

"How  could  I  kill  a  man  you  trusted,  Miss 
Hamilton?  I  had  to  let  Denver  show  his  hand  or 
you  would  not  have  believed  him  to  be — what  he  is." 

"We  shall  never  get  at  it,  of  course,  Brannon," 
she  said,  realizing  that  she  was  to  blame  for  the 
entire  affair,  and  that  if  Brannon  had  come  to  her 
to  voice  his  suspicions  about  Denver  she  would  have 
accused  him  of  unwarranted  interference.  How 
ever,  though  she  had  made  a  mistake,  she  meant  to 
prevent  the  killing  that,  plainly,  Brannon  meditated. 

"We  can't  understand  each  other  because  we  have 
different  conceptions  of  the  rules  that  govern  us  in 
our  attitude  toward  our  fellow-men.  Violence  in 
any  form  is  inexcusable ;  it  is  founded  upon  fear, 
cowardice.  Cowardice,  Brannon,"  she  repeated, 
when  she  saw  his  eyes  narrow  as  he  watched  her. 
"I  believe  that  is  what  really  makes  you  Westerners 
carry  pistols.  You  are  afraid  some  one  contem- 


94  WEST ! 

plates  shooting  you,  and  you  are  prepared  to  shoot 
first  That  is  fear,  isn't  it?" 

"You  're  doing  the  talking,  Miss  Hamilton,"  he 
said  dryly. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  mockingly,  irritated  by  his  tone; 
"I  presume  you  don't  know  what  fear  is?" 

"I  've  been  afraid." 

"Indeed!"  She  was  slightly  disconcerted,  for  she 
had  expected  him  to  deny  that  he  had  ever  expe 
rienced  the  emotion ;  but  she  meant  to  gain  her  point. 

"So  Steel  Brannon  has  been  afraid,"  she  taunted. 

He  smiled  thinly,  and  she  had  a  fleeting  impres 
sion  of  contempt  behind  the  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  evenly. 

"Oh!"  she  said;  "so  you  admit  it?" 

She  was  conscious  of  failure,  of  defeat  in  the 
effort  she  had  made  to  induce  him  to  betray  a  very 
human  impulse  to  boast.  Through  that  weakness 
she  had  meant  to  triumph  over  him ;  she  had 
intended  to  prove  to  her  own  satisfaction  that  he 
was  much  like  other  men  she  had  known. 

Brannon  was  different.  As  he  sat  there  silently 
watching  her,  not  even  replying  to  her  final  taunt, 
she  was  oppressed  with  an  overpowering  conviction 
of  his  absolute  invulnerability  to  attacks  that  would 
have  brought  confusion  upon  most  men.  She  knew 
his  strength  was  in  his  unaffectedness,  in  his  simple 
directness,  and  in  his  lack  of  conceit  and  vanity. 
He  was  like  a  metal  structure,  undraped,  rigid, 


WEST!  95 

towering,  revealing  every  linking  beam  and  section. 

Yet  she  was  determined  that  before  he  left  the 
ranch-house  she  would  get  possession  of  the  huge 
weapon  that  reposed  in  the  holster  at  his  hip.  She 
was  certain  he  intended  to  kill  Denver. 

She  got  up  and  stood  in  front  of  Brannon,  look 
ing  down  at  him  with  a  calm  smile  which  wras  a 
mask  for  the  tumultuous  emotion  seething  within 
her. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  going  to  permit 
you  to  kill  Denver.  I  want  your  pistol !" 

Brannon  rose.  He  kept  his  gaze  on  her  as  he  got 
to  his  feet ;  and  though  his  eyes  were  gleaming  with 
cold  contempt,  she  held  his  gaze  until  she  was  forced 
to  look  up  at  him.  And  she  stood  her  ground  after 
ward,  rigid,  her  eyes  fighting  the  silent  battle  she 
had  brought  on — a  battle  she  meant  to  win. 

When  she  saw  Brannon's  lips  curve  with  a  way 
ward,  whimsical  smile  she  knew  she  had  won.  And 
when  he  slowly  drew  the  big,  somber-looking 
weapon  from  its  sheath  and  laid  it  on  the  table  near 
her,  the  startled  gasp  that  she  succeeded  in  smother 
ing  told  her  she  had  not  really  expected  to  win. 

A  fierce  exultation  seized  her.  This  iron-nerved 
man,  feared  and  respected  by  other  men  in  the 
section,  was  surrendering  to  her,  was  tacitly 
acknowledging  that  her  will  was  stronger  than  his. 
It  was  a  victory  for  the  principle  she  had  defended, 
a  triumph  for  her  personality. 


96  WEST ! 

After  placing  the  pistol  on  the  table  Brannon 
stepped  close  to  her  and  stood  for  an  instant  look 
ing  at  her.  Her  senses  groped  helplessly  before  the 
enigma  of  his  gaze.  In  his  eyes  she  caught 
glimpses  of  varied  expressions,  none  of  them  dom 
inant,  that  they  might  be  singled  out  and  set  aside 
for  analysis.  She  was  baffled,  confused;  and  while 
she  stood  there  she  heard  his  voice : 

"There 's  the  gun,  ma'am ;  I  reckon  you  like 
Denver  more  than  I  do !" 

Then,  before  she  could  reply  to  the  caustic  remark 
that  accompanied  his  surrender,  he  had  turned  and 
was  walking  out  of  the  doorway. 

She  stood  pale  and  silent  until  she  heard  him  cross 
the  veranda  floor ;  and  later,  still  standing  where  he 
had  left  her,  she  could  hear  his  step  on  the  hard, 
barren  sand  of  the  level  surrounding  the  ranch- 
house. 

At  last,  trembling,  elated,  and  strangely  thrilled, 
she  turned,  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  dropped 
into  it,  resting  both  elbows  on  the  table  while  she 
stared  at  the  huge,  deadly  weapon  whose  muzzle 
gaped  threateningly  at  her  from  the  white  cloth 
upon  which  Brannon  had  laid  it.  Shuddering, 
she  reached  out  a  hesitating  finger  and  turned  the 
threatening  muzzle  in  another  direction. 

Her  satisfaction  over  the  victory  was  strangely 
mingled  with  malice.  From  the  first  Brannon's 
inflexibility  had  challenged  her,  had  irritated  her. 


WEST!  97 

She  had  felt  that  exercise  of  the  power  of  life  or 
death  over  a  fellow-being  had  become  the  ruthless 
and  domineering  impulse  of  his  nature.  Other 
impulses  had  been  revealed  later.  He  had  been 
despotic — toward  her.  Worse,  he  had  humiliated 
her  by  calmly  disregarding  her  desires  in  several 
instances;  and  by  his  cool  aloofness  toward  her  he 
had  disparaged  her  importance  as  a  member  of  the 
human  family. 

Contemplation  of  his  past  offenses  against  her 
made  the  present  victory  sweeter.  She  had  won! 
And  hereafter  she  would  show  him  that — 

She  started,  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table;  hold 
ing  on  while  with  white  lips  she  held  back  a  scream 
that  caught  in  her  throat  and  died  in  a  startled  gasp. 
In  the  grip  of  an  icy  paralysis  that  held  her  to  the 
chair  as  though  she  were  shackled,  she  turned  her 
head  until  she  faced  the  open  door;  and  she  sat 
there,  staring  into  the  square  of  moonlight,  nerve 
less,  voiceless. 

A  pistol-shot,  sharp,  crashing,  had  shattered  the 
deep  silence  of  the  night.  And  while  she  sat  there, 
unable  to  move  or  speak,  she  heard  the  sound  rever 
berate  and  die  away,  carried  on  the  slight  breeze 
that  swept  the  mighty  basin. 

And  then  came  a  silence,  strange,  portentous, 
sinister  in  the  uncertainty  it  brought  to  her.  She 
sat,  cringing  away  from  the  open  door,  afraid, 
dreading,  listening,  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XI 

NO  sound  reached  her  ears.  The  silence  of  the 
great  world  beyond  the  open  door  seemed  to 
press  in  upon  her,  to  encompass  her,  to  oppress  her 
with  a  mighty  weight  that  threatened  to  crush  her. 
Through  the  door  she  could  see  the  diamond-glitter 
of  the  stars  against  the  soft  blue  background  of 
the  sky ;  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  distant  mountain 
peak,  bathed  in  the  golden  radiance  of  the  moon 
light  ;  the  velvet-green  of  trees  and  grass  and  bushes 
in  the  luminous  haze  was  marvelously  vivid ;  some 
bare,  rugged  rocks  that  were  within  range  of  her 
vision  glistened  white  and  clean,  like  giant  pebbles 
washed  by  the  tides  of  ages.  Even  the  hard,  sun 
baked  sand  of  the  ranch-house  yard  looked  smooth 
and  inviting  to  her,  for  at  this  minute  she  was 
aware  that  she  had  erred  in  thinking  she  had  been 
afraid  of  the  country. 

The  country  was  beautiful.  In  the  clear  sweep 
of  moon-touched  landscape  was  the  immutable  calm 
that  reigns  where  man  is  not.  Man  only,  driven 
by  his  desires  and  passions,  was  to  be  feared.  Sel 
fish,  self-centered,  arrogant  with  his  puny  power, 

98 


WEST !  99 

man  strove  against  man  while  nature  looked  on 
with  inscrutable  mien. 

Josephine,  too,  like  the  men  she  had  feared,  had 
yielded  to  impulses  aroused  by  selfishness.  She 
had  named  her  selfishness  "principle,"  but  she  knew 
at  this  instant  that  the  world  meant  only  that  she 
had  wanted  to  have  her  own  way.  It  had  been  a  lust 
for  power  which  had  driven  her  to  strive  for  control 
of  Brannon's  actions ;  and  she  had  sent  him  to  his 
death  merely  because  she  had  wanted  to  show  him 
that  her  will  was  stronger  than  his. 

The  luminous  outside  world  swam  mistily  in 
her  vision  as  she  stared  at  it;  and  suddenly  the 
scene  was  blotted  out  altogether  and  she  crossed 
her  arms  on  the  table-top,  rested  her  head  on  them, 
and  yielded  to  shuddering  sobs  of  remorse  and 
terror. 

Denver  had  killed  Brannon ;  she  was  certain  of 
that.  For  she  had  sent  Brannon  out,  unarmed, 
knowing  Denver  still  had  the  pistol  that  he  had  tried 
to  draw  when  he  had  seen  Brannon  at  the  window. 
Brannon  had  been  sacrificed  to  her  ridiculous  pre 
judices  against  firearms.  She  knew  at  this  instant 
that  her  attitude  had  been  shamefully  narrow,  that 
since  all  Westerners  carried  deadly  weapons  Brannon 
was  forced  to  carry  one  also,  merely  as  a  means 
of  self-defense.  Now  she  could  solve  the  enigma 
of  his  gaze  as  he  watched  her  after  placing  his 
pistol  on  the  table;  the  dominant  expression  had 


ioo  WEST! 

been  a  sort  of  reckless  contempt  that  she  had  dared 
him. 

She  shrank  from  a  mental  picture  that  flickered 
for  an  instant  in  her  vision — that  of  Denver  speed 
ing  the  shot  that  had  killed  Brannon.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  her  mind  that  Brannon  had  received  the 
deadly  missile  as  he  had  received  her  dare,  with 
the  cold  composure  that  characterized  all  his  actions. 

She  shuddered  and  sobbed  aloud,  beating  her 
clenched  hands  futilely  upon  the  table-top,  cringing 
farther  away  from  the  picture  her  imagination  con 
jured — Brannon  lying  in  a  pitifully  huddled  heap 
on  the  hard  sand  of  the  yard,  Denver  slinking  away 
into  the  night. 

But  Denver  would  not  run  away;  with  Brannon 
dead  he  would  remain,  to — to — 

"Here  's  another  concession  to  your  principles," 
said  a  cold,  mocking  voice  at  her  elbow. 

She  did  not  look  up.  Her  convulsive  start  at 
the  sound  of  the  voice  was  succeeded  by  a  great  joy 
that  left  her  weak  and  nerveless.  For  the  voice 
was  Brannon's;  and  when  she  did  not  look  up  he 
continued  dryly:  "It's  Denver's;  I  took  it  away 
from  him." 

A  heavy  metal  object  was  laid  gently  on  the 
table  in  front  of  her,  and  by  moving  one  of  her 
arms  slightly  she  was  able  to  see  that  the  object 
was  a  pistol. 

Now,   as  when  Brannon  had  rescued  her   from 


WEST!  101 

Denver,  Brannon's  voice  soothed  her.  But  she 
refused  to  raise  her  head,  because  she  was  reluctant 
to  let  him  see  that  she  had  been  crying. 

"Go  away,  please !"  she  said  in  a  muffled,  unsteady 
voice. 

"Certainly."  His  voice  was  dryly  humorous, 
though  strangely  unsteady,  like  her  own. 

She  waited  for  him  to  go,  and  when  she  heard 
no  sound  she  thought  that  perhaps  he  had  gone  as  he 
had  come,  without  her  being  aware  of  it. 

She  raised  her  head,  to  see  him  standing  close, 
his  arms  folded  over  his  chest,  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  gently  caressing  his  chin.  The  attitude 
was  reminiscent  of  the  railroad  track  and  the  in 
cident  of  Les  Artwell. 

The  quizzical,  mocking  light  in  his  eyes  brought 
on  an  irritation  that  helped  her  mightily  to  regain 
her  composure,  though  as  she  defiantly  met  his  gaze 
a  wave  of  color  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  Enjoy 
ment  of  her  victory  over  him  had  been  premature; 
as  in  every  clash  with  her  thus  far  he  had  emerged 
the  winner. 

If  he  had  betrayed  some  sign  of  elation  over  his 
victories  she  believed  she  would  not  have  cared — 
so  much.  But  his  cold,  calm,  matter-of-fact  at 
titude,  which  seemed  to  imply  that  victory  for  him 
self  was  inevitable  and  foreordained,  aroused  in 
her  a  furious  resentment. 

"I  told  you  to  go  away!"  she  said. 


102  WEST! 

"I  heard  you,  Miss  Hamilton." 

He  moved  closer  to  her;  so  close  that  the  leather 
chap  of  one  leg  brushed  her  skirt.  She  sat  rigid, 
wondering,  resentful. 

Then  his  right  hand  came  out,  the  ringers  gently 
but  firmly  grasping  her  chin,  and  her  head  was 
forced  slowly  back  until  she  had  no  choice  but  to 
meet  his  gaze — which  she  did  with  flashing,  scorn 
ful  eyes. 

'^Crying!"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  were  swimming  with  passionate  hatred 
because  he  had  dared  to  do  what  he  was  doing  at 
this  instant,  though  she  yielded  to  the  oddly  sub 
missive  impulse  that  she  could  not  have  explained, 
and  sat  there  looking  up  at  him  when  she  might  have 
escaped  by  rising.  She  did  not  answer  but  merely 
glared  at  him. 

"Thought  Denver  had  been  shot?"  he  said. 

"No !"  she  denied,  sharply. 

"Me,  then ?"  he  said  gently.  "Oh,  don't!  There 
was  n't  any  danger  that  Denver  would  shoot  me. 
If  you  've  been  worrying  about  me  you  've  been 
wasting  time.  Denver  never  shot  anybody  when  the 
prospective  victim  was  looking  at  him.  And  I 
never  give  a  man  like  Denver  a  chance  to  shoot 
me  in  the  back.  Denver  did  n't  like  it  a  little  bit 
when  I  ask  him  for  his  gun — when  I  told  him  guns 
were  n't  popular  with  the  new  boss.  He  pulled 
it  right  handy  and  let  it  off  once  before  I  could 


WEST!  103 

take  it  away  from  him.  He  was  shooting  at  the 
moon.  But  you  should  n't  have  cried  about  me. 
You  don't  like  me  enough  for  that,  do  you?" 

"I  hate  you !"  she  declared. 

He  laughed  softly  and  released  her,  stepping 
back  and  bowing  to  her.  And  he  said  no  word  to 
her  as  he  walked  to  the  door.  But  when  he  turned 
on  the  threshold  and  looked  at  her  she  knew  he  had 
not  been  deceived ;  that  he  was  aware  that  her  anger 
had  been  a  spurious  passion,  masking — consciously 
or  unconsciously — her  real  feelings  toward  him. 
She  could  tell  by  the  amused  gleam  in  his  eyes  that 
he  knew  she  had  been  crying  because  she  feared 
Denver  fed  killed  him,  that  he  knew  she  was  fight 
ing  against  surrendering  to  him,  and  that  the 
knowledge  that  surrender  must  finally  come  was 
goading  her  to  a  pretense  of  hatred  which  was 
founded  upon  a  consciousness  of  her  own  weak 
ness. 


CHAPTER  XII 

T  71  7HILE  Brannon  had  been  talking  to  Jose- 
V  V  phine  he  had  taken  his  six-shooter  from 
the  table  where  he  had  laid  it  after  yielding  to  the 
whimsical  impulse  to  surrender  it  to  the  girl.  As 
he  stepped  down  from  the  veranda  after  leaving 
the  big  room  where  Josephine  still  sat  at  the  table, 
his  mood  was  saturnine,  almost  savage.  He  had 
spoken  lightly  to  Josephine  of  his  taking  Denver's 
gun  from  him;  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  action  had 
been  featured  by  a  bitter  struggle  which,  though 
short,  might  have  ended  disastrously  for  him  had 
his  eyes  not  been  alert  and  his  muscles  vigorous. 

Denver  had  concealed  himself  in  a  little  lean-to 
adjoining  Brannon's  shack,  and  when  Brannon 
passed  the  building  on  his  way  to  the  door  of  his 
house,  Denver  had  confronted  him.  Denver's  six- 
shooter  was  drawn ;  Brannon's  at  that  moment  was 
lying  on  the  table  in  the  big  room  of  the  ranch- 
house. 

Denver  had  witnessed  the  surrender  of  the  weapon 
to  Josephine.  Standing  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
lean-to  he  told  Brannon  about  it.  Denver's  malig 
nant  joy  over  the  thought  that  he  had  caught  his 
enemy  unarmed  was  so  great  that  it  made  him  reck- 

104 


WEST !  105 

less.  He  felt  impelled  to  gloat  over  Brannon  be 
fore  he  killed  him.  But  the  delay  cost  him  the 
victory.  He  pulled  trigger  at  Brannon's  leap  to 
ward  him,  but  Brannon's  hand  touched  the  weapon, 
deflecting  the  bullet,  which  seared  Brannon's  side. 
When  Denver  came  to,  he  was  lying  on  the  ground 
near  the  door  of  the  lean-to.  Brannon  was  stand 
ing  over  him,  gently  caressing  the  knuckles  of  his 
right  hand. 

"Our  new  boss  don't  want  any  killing,  Denver," 
said  Brannon  without  mirth,  "that 's  why  you  are 
getting  off  with  a  life  that  a  coyote  would  n't  be 
proud  of.  Fifteen  minutes  ought  to  be  plenty.  If 
you  have  n't  pulled  your  freight  from  the  Triangle 
by  that  time  the  new  boss's  orders  won't  go.  Get 
going !" 

The  fifteen  minutes  alloted  to  Denver  had  passed 
when  Brannon  emerged  from  the  ranch-house.  He 
did  not  step  out  boldly,  for  the  moon  was  bright 
and  Denver  might  have  taken  a  notion  to  use  his 
rifle.  So  Brannon  slipped  along  the  edge  of  the 
veranda  and  made  his  way  cautiously  around  the 
ranch-house,  coming  into  view  a  little  later  around  a 
corner  opposite  the  veranda  where  he  stood  for  a 
time  intently  scanning  the  level  space  that  stretched 
between  the  ranch-house  and  the  bunk-house. 

Denver  was  not  visible. 

Still,  Brannon  waited,  for  he  knew  the  man ;  and 
if  he  had  decided  to  depend  upon  a  rifle,  which 


106  WEST! 

might  be  used  to  advantage  from,  say,  a  window  of 
the  bunk-house,  he  could  make  the  little  level  an  ex 
ceedingly  dangerous  place  upon  which  to  trespass. 

Therefore  Brannon  permitted  some  minutes  to 
elapse  before  he  moved.  Then  he  leaped  for  a  giant 
cotton  wood  that  stood  at  a  distance  of  perhaps  fifty 
feet  from  the  ranch-house.  From  the  shelter  of  the 
tree  he  again  surveyed  his  surroundings.  There 
was  no  sound,  no  movement.  Still,  Denver  may 
have  decided  not  to  risk  a  shot;  he  might  possibly  be 
waiting  until  Brannon  grew  careless  or  less  active. 

Thus  Brannon  spent  considerable  time  behind 
the  tree,  alert  to  every  sound  and  movement. 
Presently  he  smiled  and  stepped  away  from  the  tree. 
Southward,  perhaps  half  a  mile,  went  a  rider. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  rider  was  Denver. 
The  man's  war-bag  was  behind  him ;  above  the  war- 
bag  the  familiar  outlines  of  Denver's  back,  shoul 
ders,  and  head. 

For  a  time  Brannon  watched;  then  went  to  the 
door  of  his  shack,  where  he  stood  for  an  instant 
staring  into  the  basin. 

He  had  left  a  bracket-lamp  burning  in  the  larger 
of  the  two  rooms  of  his  dwelling,  and  in  its  light  he 
stood  for  several  minutes  after  leaving  the  door, 
meditatively  gazing  floorward,  his  thoughts  upon  the 
girl  he  had  left  sitting  in  the  big  room  of  the  ranch- 
house. 

"She  's  like  a  bird  beating  its  wings  against  a 


WEST !  107 

pane  of  glass,  thinking  the  glass  is  the  open  air. 
She  's  getting  nowhere  and  is  kind  of  fussed  up 
about  it,"  he  mused.  "I  reckon  she  'd  like  me  if 
she  did  n't  hate  me  so  much." 

He  was  n't  sure  that  he  liked  her.  At  least  he 
pitied  her — pitied  her  because  he  realized  that  if  she 
attempted  to  alter  the  rules  of  life  of  the  country  into 
which  she  had  come  she  must  inevitably  be  disap 
pointed.  She  had  the  spirit  to  defend  her  principles; 
and  principles  were  all  right  when  considerd  as 
ideals,  but  most  humans  kept  their  principles  in  a 
hazy  background  while  they  continued  to  follow  the 
whims  of  impulse.  That  was  what  made  people 
human. 

"She  's  had  her  own  way  too  much,"  was  his 
next  mental  observation.  "She  's  trying  to  drag 
her  Eastern  environment  out  here,  hoping  to  make 
ours  over — whether  we  like  it  or  not.  She  'd  be  a 
pinhead  if  it  was  n't  for — " 

Her  hair,  he  thought  and  her  eyes,  which  were 
big  and  expressive,  with  depths  that  held  all  the 
charm  and  mystery  and  allurements  that  a  woman's 
eyes  may  express. 

"West  is  n't  East,"  was  his  next  thought-frag 
ment.  "If  she'd  study  her  geography  she'd  find 
that  the  Mississippi  is  West  until  you  get  west  of 
it.  And  then  there  's  still  more  West,  which  is  right 
about  here.  And  none  of  it  is  Eastern.  I  reckon 
she  '11  find  that  out ;  give  her  time." 


io8  WEST! 

He  returned  to  the  doorway  and  lounged  in  it,  his 
gazed  centered  at  a  point  in  the  southern  distance, 
where  went  a  rider  who  had  become  a  mere  dot  in 
the  luminous  haze  of  the  night.  He  was  still  watch 
ing  the  rider  when  he  heard  the  dull,  muffled  crash 
of  a  pistol! 

As  the  sound  seemed  to  come  from  the  direction 
of  the  ranch-house  he  ran  in  that  direction,  though 
since  the  door  in  which  he  had  been  standing  faced 
west,  away  from  the  ranch-house,  he  had  first  to 
reach  the  southern  corner  of  his  shack  before  he 
got  a  view  of  the  ranch-house. 

And  when  he  did  see  the  ranch-house  there  was 
no  sign  of  life  outside  of  it.  The  two  west  win 
dows  were  illuminated  as  they  had  been  all  evening ; 
and  light  was  streaming  out  of  the  door  upon  the 
veranda  floor. 

As  he  ran  toward  the  house  his  concern  was  for 
the  safety  of  Josephine,  though  he  could  not  under 
stand  why  she  should  be  in  danger,  unless  some 
night  wanderer  had  reached  the  ranch  and  finding 
the  girl  alone — 

He  was  on  the  veranda  before  the  thought  could 
take  complete  form. 

Standing  in  the  open  doorway,  one  hand  pressed 
tightly  to  her  bosom,  the  other  dangling  limply  at 
her  side  with  a  heavy  six-shooter  about  to  slip  from 
her  fingers,  was  Josephine.  Her  face  was  chalk- 
white,  her  eyes  alight  with  helpless  terror. 


WEST!  109 

On  the  veranda  floor,  just  at  the  edge  of  the  light 
stream  that  issued  from  the  doorway,  lay  the  body 
of  a  man,  queerly  huddled,  as  though  he  had  fallen 
face  down  and  afterward  had  tried  to  get  to  his 
feet. 

Brannon  got  that  impression  from  the  position 
of  the  man's  right  knee,  which  was  drawn  up,  and 
from  his  right  hand,  which  was  close  to  the  knee, 
limp  and  crumpled. 

Brannon  asked  no  questions,  then.  It  was  plain 
to  him  that  the  man  had  tried  to  enter  the  door 
and  that  Josephine  had  shot  him  down  almost  at  the 
threshold.  The  position  of  the  man's  body  and  Jose 
phine's  agitation  seemed  to  prove  the  soundness  of 
his  conjecture. 

He  took  a  second  fleeting  glance  at  Josephine 
as  he  stooped  beside  the  man,  to  see  that  she  had 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  stood  leaning 
weakly  against  the  door-jamb;  then  he  examined 
a  moist  spot  on  the  man's  back,  shook  his  head,  and 
turned  the  man  over  so  that  he  might  look  at  his 
face. 

The  man  had  been  shot  in  the  back,  the  bullet 
penetrating  the  region  of  the  heart.  He  was  al 
ready  dead. 

When  Brannon  got  to  his  feet  after  the  swift 
examination  his  lips  were  in  grim  lines.  The  dead 
man  was  Tim  Callahan,  the  rider  who  some  time 
before  had  brought  to  Josephine  the  news  of  Mrs. 


no  WEST! 

Whitman's  illness.  The  Star  was  on  the  rim  of  the 
basin,  eastward,  and  Callahan  had  evidently  not 
gone  far  from  the  Triangle  L  when  for  some  reason, 
which  would  probably  never  be  known,  he  had  re 
turned. 

Brannon  thought  he  knew  what  had  happened. 
Callahan  had  stepped  upon  the  veranda  without  pre 
viously  making  his  presence  known  to  Josephine; 
and  the  girl,  overwrought  by  the  exciting  events 
of  the  night,  and  thinking  perhaps  that  the  Star 
owner  was  of  the  type  represented  by  Denver,  had 
shot  him  down,  possibly  as  Callahan,  tardily  realiz 
ing  his  danger,  had  turned  to  escape. 

As  Brannon  reached  his  feet  he  saw  the  big  six- 
shooter  slip  from  Josephine's  fingers  and  thud  dully 
to  the  floor  of  the  veranda.  Josephine  was  in 
danger  of  following  the  weapon,  for  her  eyes  were 
closed  and  she  was  swaying  limply  when  Brannooi 
leaped  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

He  carried  her  into  the  big  room,  laid  her  on  a 
spacious  lounge,  watched  her  for  an  instant  with  a 
sympathetic  frown;  then  left  her  and  picked  up 
the  pistol  that  had  dropped  from  her  hand. 

A  swift  inspection  showed  him  that  two  cartridges 
had  been  exploded.  As  the  weapon  was  one  he  had 
taken  from  Denver  he  could  account  for  one'  empty 
shell ;  the  other  must  have  been  fired  at  Callahan  by 
Josephine. 

Brannon  returned  to  Josephine,  saw  that  she  was 


WEST!  in 

breathing  deeply  and  regularly,  though  still  un 
conscious;  then  he  went  outside  to  the  level  beyond 
the  veranda.  At  a  little  distance  from  the  ranch- 
house  he  saw  a  horse,  riderless,  standing  with  droop 
ing  head  in  the  shadow  of  a  juniper-tree.  The 
animal  limped  when  he  led  it  out  into  the  moon 
light,  and  he  saw  that  its  left  foreleg  had  been  in 
jured,  sprained,  he  thought — a  bad  one.  A  crude 
star,  branded  on  the  hip,  indicated  the  animal  be 
longed  to  Callahan. 

The  injured  leg  explained  Callahan's  return  to 
the  ranch-house;  Callahan  had  no  doubt  sought  to 
get  a  fresh  horse. 

Brannon  led  the  beast  to  the  stable,  intending 
after  a  while  to  return  and  care  for  the  injured  leg. 
When  he  reached  the  doorway  leading  into  the  big 
room  of  the  ranch-house  Josephine  was  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  lounge.  She  was  leaning  back,  her 
arms  outstretched,  her  fingers  gripping  the  edge  of 
the  lounge,  and  she  was  staring  at  the  open  door. 

Evidently  she  had  just  recovered  and  was  men 
tally  reviewing  what  had  happened. 

When  she  raised  her  gaze  to  Brannon  she  looked 
wildly  at  him,  shuddered,  and  said  lowly,  quaver- 
ingly : 

"Is  he — d-dead?" 

At  his  grim  nod,  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  sat  silent,  swaying  back  and  forth. 

Brannon  pitied  her,     But  he  could  do  nothing. 


ii2  WEST! 

In  killing  Callahan  she  had  violated  the  principle 
that  she  had  so  aggressively  defended.  Many  years 
would  pass  before  she  would  be  able  to  forget  to 
night's  experience ;  she  would  be  tortured  day  and 
night  by  the  vivid  memory  of  what  she  had  done; 
countless  times  the  tragedy  would  be  enacted  in  her 
mind ;  and  remorse  would  bring  its  inevitable  break 
ing  down  of  her  spirits. 

Charity  toward  her  and  a  wisdom  that  was  his 
from  experience  told  him  that  his  best  course  would 
be  silence,  and  so  he  said  nothing  as  he  walked  to 
the  center-table  where,  after  inspecting  it,  he  had 
laid  Denver's  gun.  He  picked  it  up  and  slipped 
it  inside  his  shirt,  fearing  that  she  would  become 
hysterical  if  she  saw  it. 

For  a  time  he  stood  silent,  watching  her,  frown 
ing  savagely  because  there  was  nothing  he  could 
do  to  assuage  the  terrible  grief  that  was  convul 
sively  moving  her  shoulders.  She  sat  there,  a  piti 
ful  little  figure,  frail,  impotent,  her  former  bellig 
erence  gone,  cringing  from  her  own  thoughts. 
He  would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to  take  the 
blame  for  the  killing  of  Callahan;  but  his  taking  the 
blame  would  not  prevent  her  thinking  of  the  trag 
edy.  And  that  was  what  the  future  held  in  pros 
pect  for  her. 

She  looked  up  at  last  and  ihe  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  wide  with  horrror  as  they  met  his. 

'"Go    away!"    she    cried    passionately.     "O    my 


WEST!  113 

God !  how  can  you  stand  there  so  calmly  and  look  at 
me  like  that?  When — when  that  man — "  She 
pointed  toward  the  open  doorway,  beyond  which 
lay  the  body  of  Callahan. 

She  shrank  back,  staring  at  Brannon  with  wide 
eyes,  as  though  she  were  seeing  new  details  of  his 
appearance,  as  though  at  this  instant  he  had  become 
invested  with  a  new  personality. 

"No  wonder  they  call  you  'Steel' !"  she  said,  her 
voice  almost  a  wail.  She  shuddered  and  closed  her 
eyes  as  though  looking  longer  at  him  would  be  un 
bearable. 

"Go  away — please!"  she  whispered  hoarsely. 
"Please  go — and — and  take — him — with  you.  Oh, 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer!" 

Brannon  gave  her  a  glance  of  concern  and  sym 
pathy  and  abruptly  left  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

Josephine  heard  him  moving  about  on  the  ve 
randa;  heard  him  as  he  walked  away  with  heavy 
tread  as  though  he  were  carrying  something.  Then 
she  shivered  through  the  flat,  dead  silence  that  had 
fallen. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AFTER  leaving  Josephine's  presence  Brannon 
bore  Callahan's  body  to  his  shack,  where  he 
stood   for  some  minutes  meditating  upon  the  evil 
fortune  that  had  befallen  him. 

There  had  always  been  a  lack  of  cordiality  be 
tween  the  men  of  the  Star  and  the  Triangle  L  out 
fit;  a  coldness  dating  back  to  a  day  when  Lawson.' 
Betty's  father,  and  Tim  Callahan  had  had  a  dis 
agreement  over  range  rights.  Later  Callahan  and 
Brannon  had  had  a  clash  of  wills  over  the  matter, 
and  the  Star  owner  had  injected  the  personal  ele 
ment  by  speaking  deprecatingly  of  Brannon's  ability 
as  range-boss.  There  had  been  witnesses  to  the 
meeting  between  Callahan  and  Brannon,  and  the 
witnesses  predicted  that  Callahan's  harsh  words  and 
Brannon's  caustic,  unyielding  demeanor  meant  war. 

War  did  not  develop.  So  far  as  possible,  Bran 
non  and  Callahan  avoided  each  other,  each,  de 
spite  the  enmity  that  had  come  between  them,  re 
specting  the  other  for  the  manly,  honorable  quali 
ties  each  detected  in  the  other. 

Yet  word  of  their  disagreement  had  gone 
abroad,  and  as  always,  rumor  slyly  and  maliciously 
widened  the  breach  between  the  two  men. 

114 


WEST!  115 

The  killing  of  Callahan  on  the  veranda  of  the 
Triangle  L  ranch  house  could  not  be  satisfactorily 
explained  to  the  members  of  the  Star  outfit.  It 
was  known  that  Callahan  was  Brannon's  enemy, 
and  whatever  explanation  Brannon  made  men  were 
certain  to  believe  him  guilty. 

And  Callahan  had  been  shot  in  the  back! 

As  Brannon  stood  in  the  big  room  of  his  shack 
staring  down  at  Callahan's  body,  he  kept  seeing 
Josephine  as  she  had  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  lounge  in 
the  ranch-house — abject,  terror-stricken,  suffering 
untold  horrors  of  remorse,  her  former  calm  self- 
possession  gone,  her  spirit  broken,  her  high  principles 
forgotten,  shattered — accusing  her! 

Brannon's  face  paled  in  sympathy  for  her. 

"Hell's  fire!"  he  said,  savagely.  "She's  been 
some  fresh;  but  she  hasn't  earned  that!  And  I 
reckon  Callahan  ought  to  have  had  more  sense 
than  to  scare  her  by  coming  upon  her  suddenly;  as 
as  he  must  have  done  to  startle  her  into  shooting 
him !" 

His  rigid  lips  curved  into  a  mirthless  smile  as  he 
took  Denver's  gun  from  his  shirt.  He  removed 
one  of  the  empty  shells  from  the  weapon,  replaced 
it  with  a  loaded  one  from  his  own  gun,  and  then 
slipped  the  empty  shell  into  the  chamber  from  which 
he  had  taken  the  loaded  one. 

"That  Star  bunch  is  pretty  mean,"  he  reflected  as 
he  holstered  his  own  gun  and  placed  Denver's  upon 


n6  WEST! 

a  shelf  near  the  bracket  lamp;  "they'd  devil  her 
about  it  until  she  went  loco." 

He  blew  out  the  light,  walked  to  the  door,  and 
stepped  out,  closing  the  door  securely  behind  him. 
A  few  minutes  later  he  emerged  from  the  lean-to, 
where  Denver  had  waylaid  him,  carrying  saddle  and 
bridle  and  rope. 

He  swung  open  the  corral  gates,  caught  up  his 
horse,  saddled  and  bridled  him,  and  rode  awiay 
eastward. 

He  had  not  attended  to  Callahan's  horse;  that 
task  would  have  to  aivait  his  return.  As  he  rode 
he  peered  southward,  but  Denver  had  been  out  of 
sight  a  long  time  and  Brannon  felt  reasonably  cer 
tain  the  man  would  not  return.  Denver  knew  him 
well  enough  to  know  that  he  would  keep  his  word. 

Brannon's  horse  was  the  black  he  had  ridden  on 
the  day  of  his  memorable  meeting  with  Josephine 
Hamilton.  And  as  Brannon  rode,  his  thoughts 
went  to  that  first  meeting  and  he  meditated  upon 
first  impressions. 

"Hated  me  from  the  start,"  was  his  thought,  as 
he  consulted  his  memory  regarding  Josephine's 
first  level  glance  at  him.  "Her  eyes  had  fire  in 
them  that  day.  Curious  about  her.  Of  all  the 
women  there  she  was  the  one  that  a  man  couldn't 
help  looking  at.  Something  about  her  to  make  a 
man  take  notice.  Wanted  her  own  way  from  the 
start.  Well,  I  reckon  it  would  stir  an  Eastern  wo- 


WEST!  117 

man,  coming  upon  us  like  that,  with  us  getting  ready 
to  swing  Artwell  off. 

"I  reckon  she  's  feel-ing  pretty  blue  about  now," 
he  mused.  "Principles  busted,  pride  gone,  courage 
plumb  petered  out.  It 's  a  heap  odd  about  a  woman. 
When  she's  trying  to  show  a  little  courage  and 
authority  to  sort  of  impress  a  man  and  make  him 
think  she  amounts  to  something,  he  '11  devil  her  to 
to  get  the  notion  out  of  her  mind.  Then  she  11 
blunder,  or  do  some  fool  thing — which  ought  to 
make  him  poke  fun  at  her — and  he  won't  feel  a  bit 
like  laughing.  He  '11  be  sorry  and  play  the  fool 
for  her — blaming  himself.  Then  if  she  cries  he  '11 
feel  like  a  sneak  and  try  to  play  the  martyr — like 
I  'm  doing." 

He  rode  on,  heading  eastward,  following  a  faint 
trail  made  visible  by  the  moonlight.  When  the 
dawn  came  he  was  climbing  the  long,  gradual  slope 
at  the  far  eastern  edge  of  the  big  basin,  going 
toward  a  group  of  buildings  that  were  huddled  to 
gether  on  a  mesa. 

An  hour  after  sighting  the  buildings  he  was  dis 
mounting  near  one  of  them — a  bunk-house. 

His  experienced  eye  had  observed  many  signs. 

Smoke  was  issuing  from  the  chimney  of  the 
mess-house ;  the  peculiar,  acrid  odor  of  a  wood  fire 
burned  in  his  nostrils.  A  hoodlum  wagon  stood 
beside  the  corral  fence,  its  rear  flaps  down.  The 
"chuck- wagon"  stood  near  it,  denuded  of  supplies. 


n8  WEST! 

Three  or  four  score  of  cow-ponies  milled  in  the 
horse  coral — the  remuda.  A  bench  outside  the 
bunk-house  w;as  generously  splashed  with  soapy 
water;  and  a  roller-towel,  limp  and  sodden,  drooped 
from  the  wall  above  the  bench.  All  about  were 
scattered  various  articles — a  miscellany  of  odds  and 
ends  of  harness,  wearing  apparel,  and  riding  equip 
ment. 

By  these  signs  Brannon  knew  the  Star  outfit 
was  in,  and  there  was  a  gleam  of  saturnine  humor 
in  his  eyes  as  he  walked  to  an  open  doorway. 

A  dozen  men  diligently  engaged  at  a  long  table 
ceased  eating  at  Brannon's  entrance.  There  was  a 
concerted  stiffening  of  bodies  as  Brannon  was  recog 
nized,  for  the  average  cow-boy  outfit  is  loyal  to 
the  authority  to  which  it  is  allied,  and  all  quarrels 
become  the  personal  concern  of  each  individual. 

All  gastronomic  pursuits  were  placed  in  abeyance 
until  Brannon  stated  his  business,  and  at  his  short 
word:  "I'm  looking  for  Cole  Meeder,"  a  tall  man 
rose  from  the  head  of  the  table  and  walked  toward 
the  door  in  which  Brannon  stood. 

The  tall  man  was  young.  He  could  not  have 
been  more  than  twenty-five  or  six,  but  capableness 
was  written  convincingly  upon  his  countenance. 
His  mouth  was  large  and  mobile  and  strong;  his 
eyes  were  deep-set,  keen,  and  of  a  washed  blue  that 
gave  them  an  eagle-like  vacuity.  He  was  tall  as 
Brannon.  In  his  gaze  as  he  came  to  a  halt  and 


WEST!  119 

looked  at  Brannon  was  mingled  respect  and  hos 
tility. 

"Reckon  I  'm  going  to  spoil  your  breakfast, 
Meeder,"  said  Brannon. 

"Not  my  breakfast,  Brannon.  If  a  Triangle  L 
man  was  to  bust  in  on  Callahan  this  way,  why  I 
reckon  his  breakfast  would  be  spoiled.  But  Cal 
lahan  ain't  here  now;  he's  in  Laskar." 

"Callahan  was  in  Laskar,  Meeder.  Just  now 
he  's  in  my  shack  at  the  Triangle  L." 

Meeder  started  to  smile;  the  smile  died  at  its 
inception  as  he  noted  an  almost  imperceptible  stif 
fening  of  Brannon's  lips. 

"Meanin'  what,  Brannon?"  he  demanded. 

"Callahan  is  dead,  Meeder." 

Every  muscle  in  Meeder's  body  seemed  to  leap 
into  rigidity.  His  pale-blue  eyes  glinted  with  metal 
lic  hardness.  There  was  a  heavy  silence,  broken 
presently  by  a  concerted  movement  as  the  men  at 
the  table  left  their  places  and  moved  forward,  their 
faces  expressing  eager  curiosity  and  suspicion. 

Meeder  had  not  changed  position.  But  he  heard 
the  movement  of  the  Star  men  and  lifted  one  hand 
slightly,  the  palm  turned  backward,  as  a  warning 
against  interference. 

"You  're  tellin'  us  how  Callahan,  died,  Brannon?" 
he  said  slowly. 

"That 's  what  I  'm  here  for,  Meeder.  I  killed 
him." 


120  WEST! 

Meeder's  breath  was  drawn,  sharply.  He  gave 
no  other  sign  of  surprise  or  passion.  But  behind 
him  the  men  of  the  outfit  muttered,  moved  forward 
concernedly,  and  began  to  exhibit  various  indica 
tions  of  a  hostility  which  would  break  at  a  word 
from  Meeder,  their  range-boss. 

Brannon  was  aware  of  the  strain  and  the  ten 
sion  his  words  had  provoked,  though  except  for 
the  mere  hint  of  a  wanton  smile  on  his  lips  his 
face  was  as  expressionless  as  Meeder's. 

"I  reckon  if  you  was  any  other  man  we  'd  swing 
you  for  that  statement,  Brannon,"  said  Meeder 
presently.  "But  knowin'  you  as  we  do,  an'  re- 
memberin'  there  was  hard  feelin's  between  you 
an'  Callahan,  we  aim  to  listen  to  what  you  've 
got  to  say  before  we  move.  You  're  doin'  the 
talkin'." 

"There  is  n't  much  to  it,  Meeder.  You  've  heard 
how  Betty  Lawson's  friend  from  the  East  helped 
Les  Artwell  give  me  the  slip  when  I  was  aiming  to 
swing  him  from  a  telegraph  pole." 

Meeder  nodded;  the  other  men  moved  closer, 
through  various  channels  all  the  men  of  the  outfit 
had  heard  the  story,  and  much  humor  at  Brannon's 
expense  had  featured  their  camp-fire  talks. 

"There  's  one  point  that  the  gossips  did  n't  see," 
resumed  Brannon.  "That  point  was  Denver,  Art- 
well's  friend.  Having  eyes  but  mighty  little  brains 
when  Miss  Hamilton  was  talking  to  me  there  on  the 


V 

WEST!  121 

railroad  track,  I  was  looking  at  her  pretty  much  and 
not  paying  much  attention  to  Denver. 

"We  had  Artwell  roped,  right  enough.  Denver 
helped  Miss  Hamilton  to  get  Artwell  on  the  train. 
Denver  fooled  her;  she  thought  he  was  straight 
goods,  and  she  hated  me  for  wanting  to  hang  Art- 
well. 

"Denver  has  designs  on  Miss  Hamilton.  He  'd 
been  waiting  until  he  got  his  chance.  He  thought 
the  chance  had  come  when  the  Triangle  L  outfit 
pulled  its  freight  for  the  south  range  yesterday 
morning.  Denver  pretended  to  have  a  busted  foot 
and  would  n't  go  with  the  outfit.  Betty  Lawson 
and  Lin  Murray  drove  to  Willets,  leaving  Miss 
Hamilton  behind. 

"That  seemed  to  make  things  pretty  smooth  for 
Denver.  But  I  hung  around,  not  trusting  him  be 
cause  I  'd  seen  his  foot  was  n't  hurt.  With  me 
hanging  around  there  was  n't  much  chance  for 
Denver  to  do  what  he  was  planning  to  do. 

"But  there 's  always  a  hitch  somewhere.  Not 
long  after  dark  I  was  keeping  a  cottonwood  com 
pany  and  sort  of  watching  the  house  to  see  that 
Denver  did  n't  try  any  tricks,  when  Tim  Callahan 
rode  up  to  the  gallery  and  called  in  to  Miss  Hamilton 
that  Mrs.  Whitman  was  sick  and  needed  a  doctor. 
Tim  didn't  stop  long;  he  told  Miss  Hamilton  he 
was  in  a  hurry.  He  hit  the  breeze  pretty  lively 
when  he  left. 


122  WEST! 

"After  Tim  went  I  had  to  show  up.  Denver  had 
been  hanging  around  close,  sure  enough.  He  got 
to  the  gallery  about  as  soon  as  I  did,  and  I  aimed 
to  send  him  for  the  Willets  doctor. 

"Miss  Hamilton  would  n't  hear  of  Denver  going. 
Said  she  would  n't  think  of  sending  Denver  with 
that  foot.  She  put  it  straight  up  to  me,  remind 
ing  me  of  how  she  hated  me. 

"Knowing  what  was  in  Denver's  mind,  I  slipped 
around  the  house  and  sent  the  Chink  to  Willets, 
Denver  and  Miss  Hamilton  thinking  I  'd  gone. 

"After  giving  me  time  to  get  a  start  toward 
Willets,  Denver  started  things  moving.  I  was 
watching  him  through  an  open  window.  Miss 
Hamilton  would  n't  let  me  kill  the  polecat,  so  I 
gave  him  his  time  and  fifteen  minutes  to  pull  his 
freight.  He  tried  a  gun-play  which  did  n't  work ; 
so  he  packed  his  war-bag  and  headed  south. 

"It  was  all  over — I  thought.  Half  an  hour 
after  Denver  left  I  was  out  making  sure  he  'd  gone 
when  I  saw  a  man  moving  on  the  gallery  of  the 
ranch-house.  Thinking"  it  was  Denver  trying  to 
get  at  Miss  Hamilton  again,  I  plugged  him.  Then 
I  found  out  I  'd  plugged  Tim  Callahan." 

The  silence  that  followed  Brannon's  recital  con 
tinued  so  long  that  it  grew  oppressive.  The  Star 
men  moved  restlessly  and  cast  inquiring  glances  at 
Meeder. 


WEST!  123 

At  last  Meeder  spoke,  doubt  and  indecision  in 
his  voice. 

"It  sounds  straight,  Brannon."  His  eyes  were 
steady,  probing,  and  still  hostile. 

"Where  was  Callahan's  horse,  Brannon?" 

Brannon  told  him  how  he  had  found  the  animal 
standing  under  a  tree,  lamed. 

"That  sounds  straight,  too,"  admitted  Meeder. 
"But  I  reckon  we  '11  be  takin'  a  look  at  Callahan's 
horse.  Where  is  he  lamed?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"The  left  foreleg,"  returned  Brannon,"  at  the 
knee,  I  reckon." 

Meeder  looked  long  at  Brannon  before  he  spoke ; 
and  then  his  voice  was  non-committal,  terse. 

"Much  obliged  to  you  for  ridin'  over,  Brannon. 
You  tell  a  pretty  straight  story.  The  trouble  is, 
Callahan  ain't  tellin'  any.  I  reckon  we  '11  ride  over 
to  the  Triangle  L  an'  take  a  look  at  the  ground — 
an'  Callahan.  You  '11  be  ridin'  along  with  us,  I 
reckon,"  he  added,  significantly. 

Shortly  a  dozen  Star  men,  lead  by  Meeder,  who 
rode  beside  Brannon,  skittered  down  the  slope  of 
the  basin  and  headed  toward  the  Triangle  L. 

Meager  was  the  conversation  that  featured  the 
ride,  for  in  the  hearts  of  all  the  Star  men  lurked  a 
dark  suspicion  that  Callahan's  death  had  not  come 
upon  him  in  the  manner  described  by  Brannon. 
They  respected  Brannon  as  much  as  they  could 


124  WEST! 

respect  an  enemy  of  the  man  they  had  served, 
yet  they  had  in  mind  always  the  memory  of 
the  ill-feeling  between  the  two.  So  they  spoke 
in  monosyllables  lest  they  betray  their  suspi 
cions. 

Brannon  had  made  his  lie  sound  plausible.  He 
had  constructed  it  on  the  ride  to  the  Star,  building 
it  upon  a  structure  of  half-truths,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  must  serve  the  purpose  for  which  he  had 
devised  it,  that  of  diverting  suspicion  from  Jose 
phine,  thus  sparing  her  the  agony  of  having  to  face 
Callahan's  friends  to  undergo  their  insistent  ques 
tioning. 

Shortly  before  noon  the  Star  men,  with  Brannon 
and  Meeder  riding  ahead,  swept  past  the  Triangle 
L  ranch-house  and  came  to  a  halt  at  Brannon's 
shack,  where  they  dismounted  and  filed  inside. 
They  stood,  staring  grimly  at  the  rigid  form  on 
the  floor  while  Cole  Meeder  knelt  and  made  a  some 
what  prolonged  examination  of  the  body. 

Meeder's  eyes  were  blazing  with  cold  rage  when 
he  finally  got  up  and  faced  Brannon.  His  lips  were 
curved  in  bitter  mockery  when  he  spoke : 

"In  the  back !  By  God !  You  did  n't  take  any 
chances,  did  you,  Brannon?" 

He  stepped  back,  crouching  a  little,  his  right  hand 
poised  in  a  menacing  curve  above  the  butt  of  the 
pistol  at  his  hip.  His  eyes  were  glowing  with 


WEST!  125 

passion;  it  leaped,  cold  and  sharp,  in  his  voice  as 
he  spoke  to  his  men: 

"You  guys  hold  this  man !  I  'm  goin'  to  the 
bottom  of  this!  Tim  Callahan  didn't  have  a 
chance !" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FROM  a  window  of  her  room  on  the  second 
floor  Josephine  had  watched  the  approach  of 
the  Star  men.  She  had  seen  them  when  they  were 
still  a  long  distance  from  the  ranch-house;  but  not 
until  they  were  very  close  did  she  recognize  Bran- 
non,  riding  ahead,  beside  a  tall,  grim-faced  man. 

Josephine  was  not  certain  the  men  were  from  the 
Star  until,  when  they  came  close  to  the  window,  she 
saw  the  large,  crude  brand  on  the  hips  of  the  horses. 
Then  she  shrank  back  from  the  window  and  stood 
with  both  hands  pressed  tightly  to  her  bosom,  breath 
ing  fast,  dreading  what  impended,  feeling  certain 
that  more  tragedy  would  follow. 

All  night  long  she  had  lain  awake,  worrying  about 
Brannon,  wondering  at  the  man's  iron-like  control 
of  his  feelings.  Certainly  when  he  had  faced  her  in 
the  big  room  after  he  had  killed  Callahan  he  must 
have  felt  some  remorse  over  the  crime,  but  in  his 
face  she  had  not  been  able  to  discern  the  slightest 
sign  of  emotion.  He  had  been  as  icily  composed 
as  though  his  appearance  in  the  big  room  had  been 
in  the  nature  of  a  formal  call. 

She  was  certain  he  had  killed  Callahan,  though 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  enmity  that  had  existed 

126 


WEST!  127 

between  them.  The  circumstances  of  Callahan's 
death  all  pointed  conclusively  to  Brannon  as  the  mur 
derer.  None  but  Brannon  could  have  killed  Calla- 
han,  for  beside  Brannon  and  herself  there  had  not 
been  another  person  within  miles  of  the  ranch- 
house.  When  Brannon  had  left,  after  placing  Den 
ver's  pistol  beside  his  own  on  the  table,  concern  for 
Brannon  had  driven  her  to  watch  him  from  a  win 
dow  of  the  big  room.  From  the  window  she  had 
noted  his  oddly  cautious  movements  as  he  crossed 
the  level  stretching  between  the  ranch-house  and  his 
own  shack,  and  she  had  seen  Denver  riding  south 
ward  in  the  moonlight. 

Afterward  she  had  gone  into  the  kitchen  to  bathe 
her  eyes.  She  had  heard  the  shot  that  had  killed 
Callahan,  and  after  a  moment  of  dread  sus 
pense  she  had  forced  herself  to  go  into  the 
big  room,  where  she  had  grasped  Denver's 
pistol. 

She  had  been  standing  in  the  doorway  only  an 
instant  when  Brannon  appeared,  six-shooter  in 
hand.  When  she  had  picked  up  Denver's  pistol 
from  the  table  she  had  observed  that  Brannon's  was 
missing. 

Overshadowing  all  else  in  her  thoughts  this 
morning  was  the  recollection  of  Brannon's  cold  un 
concern  over  the  murder.  He  said  no  word  about 
it,  had  offered  no  explanation.  His  attitude  had 
indicated  that  he  intended  to  offer  no  explanation. 


128  WEST! 

That  was  merely  another  example  of  his  self-suffi 
cient,  contemptuous  manner  toward  her. 

When  the  Star  men  rode  past  the  ranch-house  she 
descended  the  stairs  and  ran  to  one  of  the  west 
windows  of  the  big  room,  where,  from  behind  a 
lace  curtain  she  saw  the  men  dismount  and  vanish. 
Evidently  they  had  gone  into  Brannon's  shack. 

Wonderingly,  she  waited;  to  her  half- formed  con 
jectures  regarding  the  significance  of  the  visit  of 
the  Star  men  there  came  no  answer;  though  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Brannon  must  have  had  good 
reason  to  kill  Callahan  or  he  would  not  have  dared 
to  bring  the  Star  men  to  his  shack  to  view  the  body. 

Perhaps  Brannon  had  lied!  Perhaps  he  had  ac 
cused  some  other  person  of  the  murder;  perhaps  with 
his  usual  stoic  indifference  to  the  opinion  of  others, 
with  his  attitude  of  conscious  superiority  and  power, 
he  meant  to  deny  all  knowledge  of  the  crime! 

She  knew  the  Star  men  would  question  her; 
her  knowledge  of  the  usual  procedure  of  those  in 
authority  in  murder  cases  (gleaned  through  the 
columns  of  newspapers)  included  a  recollection  of 
an  inquisitorial  examination  of  all  witnesses.  If 
the  Star  men  questioned  her  could  she  testify  against 
Brannon  ? 

She  felt  she  must  tell  the  truth.  To  her  knowl 
edge  Callahan  had  been  innocent  of  wrong-doing. 
He  had  not  even  attempted  to  fight  back,  had  not 
even  drawn  his  gun  in  self-defense;  for  at  the 


WEST!  129 

instant  her  gaze  had  rested  upon  him  as  he  lay 
oddly  huddled  on  the  veranda  she  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  six-shooter  in  its  holster.  Appar 
ently  Brannon  had  shot  him  down  without  warning. 

Yet  she  could  not  answer  the  question  she  had 
asked  herself.  Brannon  had  treated  her  as  he 
might  have  treated  a  child,  and  his  attitude  toward 
her  had  aroused  her  to  a  fury  of  resentment  against 
him.  Yet  during  Betty's  absence  he  had  protected 
her,  risking  his  life  when,  unarmed,  he  had  taken 
Denver's  gun  from  him ;  and  he  had  not  taken  ad 
vantage  of  her  in  any  way. 

"He  's  a  man,"  she  told  herelf  as  she  stood  at 
the  window,  breathlessly  watching  Brannon's  shack. 
"Betty  knew.  He  is  a  man!" 

She  knew  now  that  she  would  lie  for  him,  that 
she  would  never  let  the  Star  men  hang  him  if  she 
had  to  tell  them — 

She  caught  her  breath  at  this  point,  setting  her 
lips  resolutely.  And  when  she  at  last  saw  a  man 
come  around  a  corner  of  Brannon's  shack  and  walk 
toward  the  ranch-house  she  left  the  window  and 
went  to  the  center-table,  where  she  stood,  fighting 
for  her  composure  while  awaiting  the  ordeal  which 
was  now  inevitable. 

For  the  man  was  coming  rapidly,  straight  toward 
the  house;  she  could  hear  his  spurs  whizzing  as  he 
mounted  the  gallery.  He  was  the  tall  man  who  had 
ridden  beside  Brannon  as  the  riders  had  passed  the 


130  WEST! 

ranch-house    on    their    way    to    Brannon's    shack. 

When  she  opened  the  door  in  response  to  his 
knock  his  blue  eyes  were  hard  as  flint  and  his 
lips  stiff  with  passion.  But  he  removed  his  hat  with 
awkward  respectfulness  at  sight  of  her,  and  his 
hard  eyes  seemed  to  soften  a  little  with  admiration. 

"I  'm  Cole  Meeder,  Miss — range-boss  for  the 
Star.  I  reckon  you  're  Miss  Hamilton.  Betty 
Lawson  did  n't  get  back  from  the  Willets  yet,  I 
reckon?" 

"I  am  Josephine  Hamilton,"  she  said,  calmly. 
"No,  Miss  Lawson  has  not  returned.  You  are  a 
neighbor,  aren't  you?  Won't  you  come  in?" 

"I  reckon  not."  Meeder's  voice  was  a  tone 
lower.  It  was  an  added  measure  of  respect.  "You 
see,  ma'am,  this  ain't  exactly  a  visit,  in  the  regu 
lar  way.  We  've  come  over  to  find  out  why  Bran- 
non  killed  our  boss.  I  'm  askin'  you  what  you  know 
about  it." 

So  Brannon  had  admitted  it!  That  was  Jos 
ephine's  first  thought.  And  he  had  evidently 
pleaded  justification  or  Cole  Meeder  would  not  have 
asked  what  she  knew  of  the  killing. 

She  did  not  need  to  ask  Meeder  how  he  had 
learned  of  the  killing;  Brannon's  arrival  in  com 
pany  of  the  Star  men  indicated  that  he  had  vol 
untarily  ridden  to  the  Star.  Though  her  cur 
iosity  was  intense  she  dared  not  ask  Meeder  to  re 
peat  what  Brannon  had  said  to  him  in  justification 


WEST!  131 

of  the  deed.  If  she  wanted  to  clear  Brannon  she 
must  not  hesitate  or  equivocate. 

It  took  every  bit  of  courage  she  possessed  to  meet 
the  steady,  penetrating  gaze  of  Meeder's  cold  blue 
eyes.  But  she  did  it. 

"Callahan  attacked  me,  on  the  veranda.  I 
was  struggling  with  him  when  Brannon  shot 
him." 

She  told  the  lie  with  an  appearance  of  truthful 
ness,  and  with  a  vehemence  that  deceived  Meeder; 
for  after  one  sharp,  suspicious  glance  at  her  his 
eyes  filled  with  an  expression  of  shamed  embarrass 
ment. 

"I  reckon  that 's  all,  ma'am,"  he  said  thickly. 
"I  did  n't  think  it  of  Callahan.  Brannon  did  n't 
tell  exactly  the  same  story;  he  stopped  short  of 
say  in'  Callahan  had  attacked  you.  He  just  said 
he  saw  Callahan  on  the  porch,  an'  thought  it  was 
Denver,  come  back.  Wanted  to  keep  you  out  of 
it,  I  reckon.  I  'm  a  heap  sorry  I  bothered  you. 
That 's  all,  ma'am — except  this.  If  I  'd  knowed 
Callahan  was  that  kind  of  a  man  I  'd  never  done 
any  range  work  for  him !" 

Josephine  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched 
Meeder  walk  away.  She  saw  him  disappear  around 
a  corner  of  Brannon's  shack.  Then  she  closed  the 
door  and  went  again  to  the  window,  where  she 
saw  the  Star  men  climbing  upon  their  horses.  They 
rode  to  the  stable,  where  one  of  them  dismounted 


132  WEST! 

and  entered,  to  emerge  an  instant  later  leading  Cal- 
kuhan's  horse.  Then  all  of  them  rode  past  the 
ranch-house,  heading  eastward  toward  the  rim  of 
the  basin.  One  of  the  riders  bore  Callahan's  body. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  had  been  part  of  Brannon's  plan  to  apprise 
Josephine  of  the  fact  that  he  had  lied  about 
the  killing  of  Callahan  to  save  her  the  torture 
of  a  quizzing  by  the  Star  men.  He  would  have  told 
her  of  his  intention  before  riding  to  the  Star  had 
he  not  feared  she  would  oppose  him  and  perhaps 
spoil  his  plan.  And  he  had  meant,  after  leading  the 
Star  men  into  his  shack,  to  go  to  the  ranch-house  to 
tell  Josephine  what  he  had  done  and  warn  her  to 
corroborate  his  story.  Meeder's  sudden  rage  upon 
viewing  Callahan's  body  had  spoiled  the  plan. 

Standing  in  the  presence  of  the  Star  men,  Bran- 
non  realized  that  he  presently  would  be  enduring 
the  jeers  of  the  men,  who  would  consider  his  at 
tempt  to  shield  Josephine  a  weakly  heroic  attitude 
by  which  he  had  endeavored  to  gain  the  lady's  favor. 
Perhaps  even  Josephine  would  take  that  view  of  the 
incident. 

Meeder  and  his  men  would  not  blame  Josephine 
for  the  killing,  conceding  she  told  the  story  of  the 
incident  as  Brannon  had  already  visualized  it;  but 
her  version  would  soon  be  told  and  retold,  with 
various  additions  and  embellishments,  with  the  in- 

133 


i34  WEST! 

evitable  result  that  she  would  have  to  endure  un 
pleasant  notoriety. 

He  might  have  saved  her  that.  Now  he  was 
doomed  to  accept  in  silence  whatever  gibes,  venom 
ous  or  otherwise,  his  friends  and  enemies  should 
choose  to  hurl  at  him. 

When  Meeder  returned  Brannon  was  leaning 
against  one  of  the  door-jambs  patiently  waiting. 
Meeder  halted  in  the  doorway.  His  face  was  red 
with  wrath  over  the  discovery  of  Callahan's  moral 
dereliction,  his  eyes  were  blazing  with  resentment 
against  Brannon  because  the  latter  had  not — ac 
cording  to  Josephine's  account  of  the  murder — told 
the  entire  story. 

"Brannon,  your  story  don't  gibe  with  Miss 
Hamilton's !"  he  snapped  savagely. 

Brannon  met  Meeder's  gaze — held  it.  A  faint, 
mocking  smile  tugged  at  his  lips.  But  he  made  no 
answer.  There  was  none  to  make.  Of  course, 
since  Josephine  knew  nothing  of  his  plan  to  shield 
her,  she  had  told  the  truth. 

"She  admits  you  shot  Callahan,"  Meeder  went 
on,  "but  she  says  you  done  it  because  Callahan 
attacked  her.  Why  did  n't  you  say  that  in  the 
first  place?" 

Watching  Brannon  keenly,  Meeder  was  not  able 
to  detect  the  slightest  change  of  expression  on  the 
other's  face.  Perhaps  Brannon's  eyes  deepened  with 
some  baffling  emotion;  perhaps  the  mocking  smile 


WEST!  135 

on  his  lips  became  a  trifle  more  pronounced. 
Meeder,  who  knew  Brannon,  was  not  certain. 

"Meecler,"  he  said  gently,  "maybe  I  did  n't  want 
you  to  know  Callahan  was  that  kind  of  a  man." 

The  red  in  Meeder 's  face  deepened.  Shame, 
rage,  and  suspicion  burned  in  his  eyes.  He  took 
two  or  three  steps  into  the  room,  gruffly  ordered 
his  men  to  carry  Callahan's  body  outside  and  place 
it  on  one  of  the  horses;  then  stood  by  silently  until 
the  men  went  out. 

Brannon  had  stepped  outside  also,  and  when 
Meeder  emerged  he  halted  within  an  arm's  length 
of  the  other.  His  voice  was  hoarse,  vibrant. 

"Callahan  was  n't  that  kind,  Brannon.  I  'm 
damned  if  I  believe  either  one  of  you!  There's 
somethin'  mighty  fishy  about  the  whole  business,  an' 
before  I  get  through  I  'm  goin'  to  get  the  truth; 
an'  don't  you  forget  it!" 

Not  waiting  for  Brannon  to  reply,  Meeder  swung 
angrily  around  a  corner  of  the  shack  and  climbed 
upon  his  horse.  Brannon  watched  the  men  until 
they  passed  the  ranch-house;  then  he  sat  down  on 
the  threshold  of  the  doorway  of  the  shack,  resting 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  with  his  chin  resting 
on  his  cupped  hands  meditated  at  some  length  upon 
the  vagaries  of  woman's  mind. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  been  willing  to  take  the  blame 
for  Callahan's  death,  and  for  that  matter  he  was 
still  willing.  But  what  had  been  Josephine's  motive 


136  WEST! 

in  accusing  him  of  the  crime?  Had  it  been 
cowardice  or  merely  a  constitutional  frailty  of 
moral  texture,  which  sought,  involuntarily  to  es 
cape  blame? 

There  was  a  vast  difference  in  her  permitting  him 
to  assume  the  responsibility  for  the  crime  at  his 
own  suggestion,  and  her  deliberately  accusing  him 
without  his  knowledge.  And  what  could  he  think 
of  those  principles  that  she  had  so  stoutly  advo 
cated  ? 

As  he  sat  there  staring  out  into  the  basin  he 
became  aware  of  a  dust-cloud  that  traveled  steadily 
southward,  toward  him.  When  the  cloud  came 
nearer  he  finally  made  out  the  outlines  of  a  buck- 
board  which  meant  that  Lin  Murray  and  Betty  were 
returning. 

The  buckboard  was  still  a  long  way  off,  and 
Brannon  had  plenty  of  time  to  debate  the  question  of 
having  a  talk  with  Josephine  before  Betty  could 
arrive.  Betty  would  have  to  be  told  of  the  killing 
of  Callahan,  and  Brannon  wondered  if  Josephine 
would  stick  to  the  story  she  had  told  Meeder,  shield 
ing  herself  from  blame  and  fixing  responsibility  for 
the  killing  upon  him. 

He  felt  little  inclined  to  talk  to  her;  there  was 
in  his  heart  a  malicious  impulse  to  permit  her  to  lie 
as  much  as  she  pleased,  since  her  lying  could  do  no 
harm  other  than  to  bring  upon  him  the  shame  of 
being  pointed  out  as  the  man  who  had  shot  an  enemy 


WEST!  137 

in  the  back.  But  he  would  carry  the  burden  of  that 
shame  to  shield  her  unless  she  chose  voluntarily  to 
confess. 

He  was  at  the  corral  gates  when  Lin  Murray 
brought  the  tired  horses  to  a  halt,  and  he  helped 
Murray  carry  Betty's  purchases  into  the  house. 

Brannon  had  determined  to  give  Josephine  a 
chance  to  speak  first;  and  so  when  once  he  was 
alone  with  Betty  at  the  buckboard  and  she  remarked 
that  she  thought  it  had  been  his  plan  to  ride  to  the 
south  range  with  the  outfit,  he  answered  shortly, 
though  with  a  smile  into  her  bright,  inquiring 
eyes: 

"Changed  my  mind.  I  had  some  accounts  to 
check  up.  I  'm  joining  the  outfit  in  the  morning." 

Later,  lugging  an  armful  of  supplies  and  walking 
behind  Betty,  he  almost  ran  into  Josephine,  who  was 
crossing  the  kitchen.  Several  times  while  making 
trips  from  the  buckboard  to  the  house  he  had  heard 
Betty  and  Josephine  talking,  though  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  the  girl  since  the  preceding 
night.  And  now  as  he  almost  brushed  against  her 
she  flushed,  averted  her  head  and  walked  past  him 
without  looking  at  him. 

The  buckboard  had  been  unloaded  and  Brannon 
was  talking  with  Lin  Murray — both  men  stand 
ing  near  the  door  of  the  mess-house — when  'Betty 
approached. 

Her  eyes  were  steady,  inquiring,  and  held  a  glint 


138  WEST! 

of  perplexity  as  she  walked  to  Brannon  and  stood 
close  to  him.  There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her 
cheeks,  and  her  lips  had  a  slight  belligerent  curve. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "where  is  Chong?  I  asked 
Josephine  the  same  question  and  she  told  me  to  ask 
you.  Well,  I  'm  doing  it.  Where  is  Chong?" 

"I  sent  Chong  to  Willets  for  a  doctor  for  Mrs. 
Whitman." 

"Oh,"  said  Betty,  still  perplexed.  "I  don't  know 
what  there  is  about  the  sending  of  Chong  to  Wil 
lets  that  would  make  it  necessary  for  Jo  to  be  so 
secretive.  Do  you?" 

"No." 

"Brannon,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you 
— with  both  you  and  Jo?  Jo  acts  terribly  odd; 
and  I  don't  like  you  to  drawl  in  that  irritating  way 
when  you  speak  to  me.  How  did  you  come  to  send 
Chong  to  Willets  for  the  doctor?  Who  told  you 
Mrs.  Whitman  was  sick?" 

"Tim  Callahan  rode  by.  He  'd  been  to  Laskar 
and  had  stopped  at  Whitman's  on  the  way  back." 

"You've  been  alone  here  with  Jo?"  The  color 
jn  her  cheeks  deepened  with  the  question.  She  liked 
Brannon,  and  she  certainly  was  not  jealous  of  Jo 
sephine  ;  but  she  was  conscious  of  a  queer  constric 
tion  somewhere  inside  of  her  at  the  thought  of 
Brannon  and  Josephine  being  the  only  persons  at 
the  ranch  during  her  absence. 

Brannon  gave  her  a  sharp,  oblique  glance. 


WEST!  139 

"Denver  was  here  until  early  this  morning,"  he 
said. 

"He  isn't  here  now,  though?" 

"No." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"I  gave  him  his  time  this  morning.  He  rode 
south." 

"Why  did  you  discharge  him,  Brannon?" 

"We  had  a  disagreement." 

Ordinarily  Betty  would  have  been  satisfied  with 
such  a  statement;  men  came  and  went  and  there 
was  never  very  much  bother  about  the  matter. 
But  she  had  detected  in  Brannon's  manner  a  con 
straint  that  had  made  her  suspicious  that  he  was 
reluctant  to  talk,  and  she  was  determined  to  make 
him  talk. 

"What  did  you  disagree*  over,   Brannon?" 

"Nothing — much." 

"Nothing — much,"  she  said,  mockingly,  imita 
ting  his  tone.  "How  remarkable!  You  have  dis 
agreement  with  one  of  the  men  over — over  'noth 
ing — much',  and  you  discharge  him." 

Murray  turned  his  head  and  grinned  into  a  hand ; 
Brannon  faced  Betty,  whose  eyes  were  bright  with 
determination  and  truculence.  The  girl's  cheeks 
were  tinged  with  a  warm  color;  her  chin  was  up- 
tilted  as  she  gazed  at  Brannon  with  a  directness 
that  would  have  been  disconcerting  to  another  man 
— but  which  brought  into  Brannon's  heart  a  sudden 


140  WEST ! 

realization  that  Betty  was  prettier  than  he  had 
thought  and  that  she  was  much  more  wholesome 
and  human  in  her  anger  than  Josephine.  Also, 
Brannon  became  aware  of  the  bewitching  curve  of 
Betty's  chin  and  the  winsome  lines  of  her  mouth. 

He  was  struck  with  the  odd  thought  that  he  had 
never  noticed  her  beauty;  or  if  he  had  noticed  it 
he  had  done  so  subconsciously,  without  half  ap 
preciating  it.  He  was  trying  to  think  of  an  evasive 
answer  when  he  saw  Betty's  eyes  glow  with  deep, 
abashed  light;  saw  her  eyelashes  droop;  wonder- 
ingly  watched  the  warm  color  already  in  her  cheeks 
quickly  suffuse  her  neck  and  forehead. 

Puzzled,  he  looked  quickly  at  Murray,  thinking 
the  latter  might  have  caused  the  blush.  Murray's 
back  was  turned.  Brannon  again  faced  Betty, 
whereat  he  saw  deep  scorn  and  mockery  in  her 
eyes :  observed  that  her  chin  had  come  forward 
defiantly,  and  that  her  lips  were  resolutely  set. 

And  then  when  his  perplexed  eyes  met  hers 
she  laughed,  shortly,  tauntingly.  But  in  the  laugh 
was  a  note  of  elation;  for  though  she  had  longed 
for  it,  this  was  the  first  time  since  she  had  known 
Brannon  that  she  had  seen  the  fire  of  admiration — 
for  her — in  his  eyes. 

"Nothing — much,"  she  said,  her  voice  a  mere 
ripple  of  tantalizing,  restrained  mirth.  "You 
don't  feel  like  talking,  do  you,  Brannon?  And 
my  questions  bother  you.  And  you  don't  want 


WEST!  141 

me  to  try  to  make  you  talk,  do  you,   Brannon?" 

She  turned  abruptly  and  walked  toward  the 
ranch-house,  leaving  Brannon,  more  deeply  puzzled 
than  ever,  staring  after  her. 

"She  was  funnin'  you,  Brannon,"  chuckled  Mur 
ray. 

No  answer  from  Brannon. 

"I  don't  make  no  claim  to  knowin'  why  she  was 
funnin'  you,  Brannon,"  went  on  Murray  in  a 
stifled  voice.  "But  she  was  funnin'  you  about  some- 
thin',  sure  as  shootin',  sure  as  shootin'.  But  I 
reckon  she  knows.  'Nuthin' — much/ '  he  said, 
mimicking  Betty's  voice,  "  'nuthin' — much,'  she 
says,  ca'm  as  you  please.  'Nuthin' — much' ! 
Which  she  means  is  plenty — which  you  don't 
sabe!" 

Brannon  got  rid  of  Murray  by  the  simple  expedi 
ent  of  walking  down  to  the  creek  where  he  stood  for 
a  time  trying  to  solve  the  puzzle  of  Betty's  manner. 
He  gave  it  up  after  a  while  and  returned  to  his 
shack,  where  he  sat  for  a  time  on  the  threshold  of 
the  doorway. 

When  he  heard  a  sound  at  the  corner  of  the  shack 
he  raised  his  head  to  see  Betty  coming  toward  him. 
Her  face  was  pale,  now ;  her  eyes  were  serious. 

"Brannon,"  she  said  after  she  had  come  close 
to  him,  "why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  Calla- 
han?" 

"I  figured  you  'd  hear  about  it  after  a  while." 


142  WEST ! 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me,  Brannon?  It  is  n't  like 
you  to  dodge  responsibility.  You  were  talking  to 
me  a  few  minutes  ago.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me 
then,  instead  of  waiting  for  Jo  to  do  it?" 

"She  told  you,  eh?"  drawled  Brannon.  He  was 
wondering  if  Josephine  had  stuck  to  her  original 
story — the  story  she  had  told  Meeder. 

"It  was  a  shame  to  make  her  tell  it,  Brannon; 
she  was  almost  hysterical.  It  must  have  been  a 
terrible  thing  for  her  to  have  seen !" 

"I  reckon  it  could  n't  be  helped,"  he  said. 

He  knew  from  Betty's  words,  "a.  terrible  thing 
for  her  to  have  seen,"  that  Josephine  had  repeated 
the  story  she  had  told  Meeder  which,  in  effect,  was 
that  Brannon  had  killed  Callahan  while  she  looked 
on.  He  had  decided  he  would  corroborate  anything 
Josephine  said,  and  because  he  was  still  in  doubt  as 
to  whether  Josephine  had  mentioned  that  Callahan 
had  attacked  her,  he  hesitated  to  comment  further. 

Betty's  next  words  indicated  that  Josephine  had 
repeated  her  original  version. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  Callahan  was  capable  of 
doing  a  thing  like  that,  Brannon!" 

Betty's  clear,  direct  eyes  were  probing  Brannon's, 
and  lest  she  detect  the  insincerity  in  them  he 
looked  past  her,  into  the  farther  reaches  of  the 
basin.  Betty's  eyes  had  always  made  Brannon  feel 
slightly  uncomfortable,  especially  when  she  looked 
at  him  as  she  was  looking  now,  with  a  challenging 


WEST !  143 

honesty  that  made  him  wonder  at  the  clean  purity  of 
her  thoughts. 

"Brannon,"  she  said  firmly,  "look  at  me !" 

Brannon  obeyed. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "Callahan  was  shot  in  the 
back.  Did  you  shoot  him?" 

He  could  have  lied  to  her,  but  he  knew  he  could 
not  deceive  her. 

"You  told  me  Miss  Hamilton  told  you  about  it," 
he  evaded. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,  Brannon!" 

"I  'm  not  doing  any  talking." 

"Brannon,  I  want  an  answer !" 

She  saw  his  eyes  glint  with  derision;  a  saturnine 
smile  flitted  thinly  over  his  lips.  She  knew  these 
things  were  signs  of  that  unyielding  quality  in  him 
that  had  earned  him  the  sobriquet  "Steel."  In 
situations  of  gravest  danger,  where  sheer  courage 
alone  was  the  one  element  that  would  save  him,  she 
had  seen  in  his  eyes  the  expression  that  was  in 
them  now;  and  she  knew  the  futility  of  insisting. 

Yet  there  was  a  calm  serenity  in  her  eyes  despite 
Brannon's  refusal  to  answer.  Brannon  was  not 
"Steel"  Brannon  to  her.  She  could  remember  the 
day,  several  years  ago,  when  Brannon  had  joined  the 
Triangle  L  outfit,  and  her  idealistic  first  impression 
had  been  strengthened  by  the  years.  To  her  at  that 
time  he  had  seemed  a  hero  who  had  ridden  out  of 
one  of  her  well-thumbed  romantic  novels;  and 


144  WEST! 

though  there  had  been  disappointing  revelations  of 
character,  which  were  the  inevitable  results  of  con 
trasting  the  real  with  the  ideal,  Brannon  was  still 
the  knight  of  her  girlhood  days. 

Which  does  not  mean  that  she  had  failed  to 
value  him  by  the  standard  by  which  she  judged 
other  men;  if  anything,  her  practical  common  sense 
and  her  uncanny  intuitive  instinct  had  subjected 
him  to  tests  that  she  would  not  have  thought  of 
applying  to  other  men.  She  had  watched  him, 
studied  him ;  had  deliberately  manoeuvered  him  into 
positions  where  she  could  test  the  temper  of  the 
metal  of  his  make-up,  positions  that  gave  her  little 
intimate,  illuminating  glimpses  of  his  character. 
She  had  searched  and  probed  and  peered  at  and 
prodded  the  mental  structure  of  him,  and  in  not  one 
important  detail  had  she  found  him  lacking. 

She  knew  him.  The  material  from  which  he 
had  been  made  was  sound;  he  had  no  veneer,  no 
exterior  polished  smoothness  with  which  to  conceal 
unpleasant  imperfections. 

But  he  never  seemed  to  think  of  her  except  as 
merely  Betty  Lawson,  the  daughter  of  his  employer. 
And  of  course  until  he  did  begin  to  think  of  her 
in  another  way  she  must  not  let  him  understand 
that  for  years  she  had  been  secretly  wishing  and 
hoping  for  a  light  in  his  eyes  which  would  tell 
her  that  she  was  desirable.  To-day  she  had  seen 
that  light,  the  dawning  of  admiration — an  admira- 


WEST!  145 

tion  which  was  not  quite  sure  of  itself,  an  un 
developed,  mildly  astonished  admiration.  And 
then,  coincident  with  the  longed-for  moment,  had 
come  Josephine's  story  of  the  killing  of  Callahan! 

But  her  faith  in  Brannon  had  not  been  shaken. 
Therefore  as  she  stood  before  him  at  this  minute 
she  was  conscious  of  a  serenity  that  dulled  the 
exasperation  she  felt  over  his  refusal  to  answer 
her  question. 

"I  take  that  back,  Brannon,"  she  said,  smiling 
calmly.  "The  Brannon  I  know  does  n't  shoot  people 
in  the  back;  he  did  not  kill  Tim  Callahan.  Do 
you  think  there  is  enough  grass  on  the  southern 
range  for  the  cattle,  Brannon?" 

Brannon's  eyes  glowed.  Betty  saw  the  fingers  of 
both  his  hands  slowly  clench ;  saw  his  lips  straighten 
into  rigid  lines,  while  his  cheeks  showed  white 
through  the  deep  tan  upon  them.  For  the  first 
time  since  she  had  known  him  she  saw  him  in  the 
grip  of  some  mighty  emotion. 

It  was  swiftly  transient;  had  she  not  been  keenly 
watching  him  she  would  not  have  detected  it  at  all. 

"I  reckon  there  's  plenty  of  grass,"  he  said.  And 
again  she  saw  in  his  eyes  a  gleam  of  that  which 
had  been  in  them  some  time  before.  And  again  he 
stood  perplexed  before  the  miracle  of  Betty's  flaming 
cheeks  and  abashed  eyes. 

But  only  for  an  instant.  Then  she  was  walking 
toward  the  ranch-house. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HERSELF  convinced  that  Brannon  had  sped 
the  bullet  that  had  killed  Tim  Callahan,  Jose 
phine's  recital  of  the  incident  to  Betty  had  been 
featured  by  a  determination  to  tell  the  truth.  As 
an  extenuating  circumstance  she  had  repeated  a 
possibility,  suggested  by  Cole  Meeder  when  she  had 
undergone  the  trial  of  being  questioned  by  the 
Star  ranch-boss,  to  the  effect  that  Brannon  had 
mistaken  Callahan  for  Denver.  Thus  she  sought 
to  assuage  the  keen  horror  suffered  by  Betty  as  she 
listened  to  the  story. 

Betty  did  not  let  her  friend  realize  how  the  news 
of  the  killing  had  shocked  her;  and  when  Betty 
returned  to  the  ranch-house  after  her  talk  with 
Brannon  she  did  not  again  refer  to  the  matter. 
Watching  Betty  furtively  during  the  late  afternoon 
and  evening  Josephine  decided  that  Betty  appeared 
rather  unconcerned  over  the  killing,  which  uncon 
cern  might  be  attributed  to  Betty's  having  been 
born  and  reared  in  a  section  of  country  in  which 
most  people  betrayed  a  calloused  indifference  toward 
violence  in  every  form. 

Josephine  of  course  was  not  aware  of  Betty's 
146 


WEST !  147 

knowledge  of  Brannon's  character,  or  she  would 
have  been  troubled  over  the  perplexed  expression 
of  Betty's  eyes  whenever  they  rested  upon  her. 
Betty  was  wondering  how  much  of  the  real  story 
of  the  death  of  Callahan  her  friend  had  told,  and 
she  was  entertaining  a  natural  contempt  for  Jose 
phine's  secretiveness — a  contempt  which,  despite 
Betty's  mental  denial  of  jealousy,  was  founded 
upon  the  conviction  that  somehow  the  killing  of 
Callahan  was  connected  with  the  rather  clandestine 
aspect  of  Josephine's  overnight  stay  at  the  ranch- 
house  with  Brannon. 

However,  Betty  was  Josephine's  hostess,  and  her 
interest  in  her  friend's  activities  must  be  limited 
by  the  requirements  of  courtesy;  and  Betty  delicately 
forebore  to  question.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
rather  strained  her  patience  to  be  polite  to  Josephine, 
and  as  soon  as  she  decently  could  she  went  to  bed, 
pleading  weariness  after  the  tiresome  ride  from 
Willets. 

Josephine  did  not  accompany  Betty  upstairs. 
Betty  had  spoken  of  meeting  Chong  in  town  during 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  telling  Josephine 
she  had  sent  Chong  to  the  Whitman  cabin  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  home  news  of  Mrs.  Whitman's 
condition  after  the  doctor's  visit. 

Chong,  Betty  had  said,  would  very  likely  reach 
the  ranch-house  long  before  midnight;  and  Jose 
phine  was  anxious  for  the  news  he  would  bring. 


148  WEST! 

After  Betty  retired  Josephine  went  out  upon  the 
veranda  and  dropped  into  a  rocker. 

There  was  a  big  moon,  and  in  its  soft,  mellow 
light  the  basin  loomed  vast  and  beautiful.  But 
Josephine  found  herself  watching  Brannon's  cabin, 
observing  how  the  lamp-light  streaked  out  between 
the  window's  shade  and  the  sash,  wondering  about 
Brannon.  Brannon  must  know  she  had  lied  for 
him,  and  yet  he  had  made  no  effort  to  thank  her 
when  she  had  seen  him  in  the  kitchen  during  the 
day. 

She  found  it  hard  to  think  of  Brannon  as  a  mur 
derer,  however.  There  had  been  something  in  the 
man's  manner  the  night  before  that  had  puzzled 
her.  She  was  sure  she  had  seen  sympathy  in  his 
eyes  when  he  had  been  standing  near  the  center- 
table  watching  her  as  she  sat  on  the  lounge  trying 
to  conquer  her  horror  over  the  dread  scene  she  had 
witnessed.  Why  should  he  sympathize  with 
her?  If  any  one  needed  sympathy  it  was  him 
self! 

And  yet  he  seemed  not  to  need  it  after  all.  In 
his  eyes  as  he  had  stood  there  had  gleamed  the 
enigmatic  light  that  had  distinguished  all  his 
glances  at  her,  though  behind  the  light  had  been 
the  old  self-sufficiency  and  consciousness  of  power 
and  authority  that  had  so  irritated  her. 

She  was  drawn  to  him  even  now,  and  she  blushed 
when  she  remembered  how  she  had  thrilled  at  the 
touch  of  his  hand  on  her  hair,  and  how  she  had 


WEST !  149 

vibrated  to  his  voice  when  he  had  placed  Denver's 
pistol  on  the  table  close  to  her  head. 

Had  Brannon  been  an  Easterner,  had  he  been  a 
product  of  that  polite  society  to  which  she  was 
accustomed,  were  he  less  uncouth  and  not  so 
completely  enveloped  in  the  vital,  rugged,  and  over- 
poweringly  stern  atmosphere  of  the  country,  she  be 
lieved  she  could  love  him.  Still  she  knew  this  rea 
soning  was  purely  of  the  brain;  while  she  was  think 
ing  her  heart  was  saying,  "I  want  him ;  I  want  him." 

She  got  up,  self -contemptuous  because  she  had 
'correctly  interpreted  the  inner  voice,  and  stepped 
down  from  the  gallery.  She  walked  to  the  eastern 
side  of  the  ranch-house  and  stood  there  for  a  time 
reflectively  gazing  into  the  moonlit  distance,  aware 
of  her  hot  cheeks  and  of  the  odd  yearning  that  had 
seized  her.  Brannon's  magnetism  was  not  to  be 
dispelled  by  mere  reasoning! 

A  patch  of  level  grass  at  a  little  distance  south 
of  the  house  attracted  her  and  she  walked  toward 
it,  reveling  in  the  beauty  of  the  night  and  filling  her 
lungs  with  the  marvelously  sweet  air,  laden  with 
the  blended  aromas  that  were  carried  to  her  on  the 
breeze  that  blew  against  her  from  the  unfathomed 
distances  of  this  strange  land. 

To  reach  the  grass  patch  she  was  forced  to  pass 
close  to  the  stable;  and  when  she  heard  a  sound, 
seeming  to  come  from  the  interior  of  the  building, 
she  halted  irresolutely,  almost  persuaded  to  go 
back. 


150  WEST! 

While  she  stood  there  she  heard  sound  again, 
and  fearfully  turned  to  the  big  door  from  where, 
if  danger  lurked,  it  would  have  to  emerge. 

The  door  was  half-open.  In  the  aperture,  cling 
ing  weakly  to  the  jamb,  swaying  back  and  forth 
on  unsteady  legs,  his  head  sagging  almost  to  his 
chest  was  a  man. 

She  wheeled,  terror  goading  her,  stifling  the 
scream  that  leaped  to  her  lips.  But  on  the  instant 
came  the  man's  voice,  low  appealing: 

"Don't,  ma'am;  I'm  hurt!" 

She  paused  uncertainly.  The  man's  words, 
"I'm  hurt!"  held  a  piercing,  hopeless  appeal.  And 
the  voice  was  familiar. 

She  again  faced  the  door  and  the  man,  peered 
intently  at  his  face,  which  was  strangely  white,  al 
most  ghastly  in  the  moonlight;  then  she  caught  her 
breath  and  said  sharply,  breathlessly : 

"Les  Artwell!" 

"It 's  me,  ma'am,"  came  the  answer,  whisper- 
ingly.  "I  'm  hurt  bad — shot.  Don't  make  a  fuss, 
for  God's  sake !  An'  don't  run  away  from  me, 
ma'am." 

He  lurched,  sagged  against  the  door-jamb,  and 
went  to  his  knees.  In  an  instant  she  was  beside 
him,  frenziedly  eager  to  help  him,  though  as  help 
less  in  her  excitement  as  he  in  his  weakness. 

He  was  certainly  Les  Artwell.  His  boyish  face 
was  dirty  and  seamed  and  lined  with  pain  wrinkles; 


WEST!  151 

though  through  the  grime  the  skin  of  his  nostrils 
showed  white,  betraying  his  effort  to  suppress  the 
agony  that  sought  expression.  His  eyes — sullen 
eyes  that  she  had  observed  that  day  beside  the  rail 
road  track — were  glazed  with  misery  and  fixed  on 
hers  with  mute  appeal. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  she  cried, 
frantically.  "O  my  God,  that 's  blood!"  she  gasped 
as,  placing  a  hand  upon  his  chest  to  keep  him  from 
falling  against  her,  she  touched  a  moist  spot  and 
recoiled,  the  moonlight  revealing  crimson  stains  on 
her  fingers. 

"Don't  make  a  fuss,"  he  admonished  weakly. 
"They  '11  get  me  if  you  do — Brannon  an'  Murray. 
I  shot  myself  accidental — this  mornin'.  I  was 
ridin'  this  way,  lookin'  for  help  an'  expectin'  to 
bring  up  at  Whitman's.  Must  have  lost  my 
bearin's.  My  hoss  throwed  me,  an'  sloped."  He 
paused  to  breathe  huskily  and  heavily;  then  went 
on:  "Brannon — he'd  swing  me.  If  you  could  help 
me  get  to  Lattimer's  place — it 's  fifteen  miles — 
south — I  'd  get  help.  Lattimer  's  my  friend." 
He  broke  off  and  rested  his  chin  on  his  chest,  mum 
bling. 

"Lattimer!" 

Josephine  spoke  the  name  aloud.  That  was  the 
man  of  whom  Betty  had  said :  "He  would  n't  hesi 
tate  to  carry  a  woman  away  to  the  mountains." 

And  Brannon  had  said  that  Denver  and  Artwell 


152  WEST! 

were  friends.  Did  the  two  remarks  identify  that 
trio  as  outlaws,  or  had  Betty  said  that,  meaning 
to  be  picturesque?  And  had  Brannon  linked  Den 
ver's  and  Artwell's  names  together  merely  to 
frighten  her? 

Concern  for  her  personal  safety  was  strong  in 
her  at  this  instant.  Lattimer  lived  south  of  the 
Triangle  L;  Denver  had  ridden  southward  the 
night  before;  and  now  Artwell  was  asking  her  to 
take  him  to  Lattimer's  ranch,  which  act  would  very 
probably  bring  her  into  the  presence  of  at  least  one 
man  who  had  meditated  a  vicious  attack  upon  her. 
However,  she  remembered  more  of  the  things  Betty 
had  said  about  Lattimer :  "He  's  a  man,  Jo — a 
real  man" ;  or  something  to  that  effect.  And  cer 
tainly  a  real  man  would  not  offer  to  harm  her. 

Anyway  she  must  run  the  risk.  She  could  not 
let  Artwell  remain  in  the  stable  to  die,  nor  could 
she  deliver  him  to  Brannon  that  the  latter  might 
hang  him ;  and  it  was  very  evident  that  Artwell  was 
not  strong  enough  to  ride  fifteen  miles  without  as 
sistance. 

It  is  one  thing  to  entertain  a  principle;  it  is  still 
another  thing  to  carry  one  into  effect  at  the  risk  of 
one's  personal  safety.  Josephine  considered  the 
difference  as  she  stood  in  the  stable  doorway  watch 
ing  Artwell.  Her  reluctance  to  act  in  this  crisis 
was  overpowering;  she  was  frankly  afraid. 

But  when  she  saw  Artwell  slowly  turn,  steady 


WEST!  153 

himself,  and  begin  to  walk  into  the  darkness  away 
from  the  doorway,  she  followed  him;  heard  his 
voice  as  he  tottered  ahead  of  her. 

"I  got  a  saddle  an'  bridle  on  a  hoss.  Took  me 
most  all  day.  But  I  couldn't  get  on  him — no  way. 
Too  weak.  If  you  'd  help  me  a  little,  mebbe  I 
could  manage  it.  An'  maybe — if  you  're  afraid, 
an'  don't  want  to  take  no  chances  on  the  folks  in 
the  house  findin'  out — you  could  go  a  little  ways 
with  me,  just  to  sort  of  get  me  started  right.  I 
reckon  I  could  make  it." 

The  moonlight  streaming  into  the  open  doorway 
made  a  subdued  light  in  the  stable,  and  somehow 
she  managed  to  help  Artwell  into  the  saddle.  The 
horse  stood  in  a  wide  stall,  and  by  making  use  of 
the  manger  and  the  low  partition  of  an  adjoining 
stall,  the  task  was  accomplished. 

But  once  in  the  saddle  Artwell  seemed  to  col 
lapse  completely.  He  slumped  against  the  high 
pommel,  inert,  helpless. 

Pity  for  Artwell  goaded  her  to  a  quick  decision. 
The  stable  was  large,  and  Chesterfield  was  some 
where  in  it.  She  found  him  after  a  while  stolidly 
standing  in  a  stall  in  a  corner ;  and  though  her  awk 
wardness  and  her  lack  of  familiarity  with  riding 
equipment  made  the  work  slow  and  exasperatingly 
difficult,  she  finally  got  saddle  and  bridle  on  Ches 
terfield,  mounted  him,  and  urged  him  beside  Art- 
well's  horse. 


154  WEST! 

A  little  later  she  led  Artwell's  horse  out  and  rode 
southward,  casting  apprehensive  glances  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  ranch-house;  fully  conscious  of  the 
risk  she  was  taking  in  going  with  Artwell,  accept 
ing  the  risk  with  a  high  courage  that  filled  her  with 
a  strange  exultation. 


CHAPTER'  XVII 

WITH  the  coming  of  the  first  faint  light  of 
dawn  Josephine  caught  the  dim  tracery  of 
a  group  of  buildings  that  stood  on  a  level  at  the 
edge  of  a  timber  clump.  A  thin  mist  that  had 
swathed  the  basin  was  slowly  rising,  with  delicate, 
veil-like  wisps  drooping  here  and  there,  clinging 
to  the  earth  as  though  reluctant  to  join  the  slowly 
disintegrating  mass  above. 

Urging  Chesterfield  forward,  though  at  a  pace 
which  was  rather  slower  than  a  man  could  walk, 
Josephine  glanced  back  at  Artwell. 

The  man  was  unconscious;  though  whether  he 
had  reached  that  state  from  a  loss  of  vitality  be 
cause  of  his  wound  or  from  weariness,  Josephine 
did  not  dare  to  determine.  It  was  enough  that 
she  had  brought  him  within  sight  of  Lattimer's 
ranch  without  his  having  fallen  from  the  saddle. 
She  knew  she  would  never  be  able  to  touch  him, 
and  for  that  reason  she  had  kept  Chesterfield  at  a 
slow  pace  that  had  been  distressing  to  her  strained 
nerves;  though  there  was  no  doubt  that  by  travel 
ing  slowly  she  had  saved  herself  the  horrible  alter 
native  of  seeing  him  fall  from  the  saddle.  She 
was  convinced  that  she  could  never  help  him  mount 


156  WEST! 

again;  she  could  not  have  touched  him.  How  he 
had  ever  clung  to  the  saddle  during  the  fifteen-mile 
ride  she  could  not  understand,  though  she  supposed 
it  was  due  to  instinctive  muscular  action. 

She  was  dead  tired  herself.  In  that  ghostly 
time  when  night  was  not  yet  gone  and  morning 
not  yet  come,  she  had  ridden  forward  without 
having  the  slightest  sense  of  direction;  but  with 
the  first  light  she  could  distinguish  a  dim  trail  which 
Chesterfield  must  have  been  following  either  from 
instinct  or  by  knowledge.  It  made  little  difference 
now;  she  was  almost  there. 

As  she  guided  Chesterfield  down  a  gentle  slope 
that  merged  with  the  level  upon  which  stood  the 
buildings  that  were  now  very  close,  she  realized 
that  Artwell  was  not  unconscious,  for  he  was  mum 
bling  words  that  were  unintelligible  at  first;  though 
finally  she  made  them  out : 

"Clear  grit ;  she  's  hangin'  right  on — could  n't 
have  made  it — must  have  been  out  of  my  head — 
never  made  a  longer  ride — why,  no  woman — 

Then  his  voice  trailed  off  into  incoherence ;  and 
she  screamed  with  horror  as,  reaching  the  level, 
she  saw  him  topple  sidewise  and  fall  heavily  into 
the  tall  grass  beside  his  horse. 

She  screamed  again  and  sat  helplessly  in  the 
saddle,  seeing  the  dread  limpness  of  Artwell's  body, 
and  how  his  arms  were  outflung  with  the  entire 


WEST!  157 

abandonment  of  muscular  control.  Artwell  could 
go  no  farther. 

She  had  dismounted,  desperately  controlling  her 
jangled  nerves,  grimly  determined  to  go  to  Artwell 
despite  the  terrible  dread  that  oppressed  her,  when 
she  heard  a  shout  and  saw  a  horseman  riding  to 
ward  her  from  the  group  of  buildings. 

She  must  have  fainted  then,  for  when  she  again 
became  conscious  of  what  was  going  on  around  her 
she  realized  that  she  was  sitting  in  a  big  roomy 
chair  on  a  wide  veranda,  and  that  within  half  a 
dozen  paces  of  her  a  big  man  stood  silently  watch 
ing  her. 

Artwell  and  the  horses  had  vanished.  A  breeze 
was  blowing  directly  into  her  face,  bathing  her  hot 
cheeks  with  refreshing  coolness ;  her  hair  was  in  ter 
rible  disorder,  for  some  stray,  stubborn  wisps  were 
waving  before  her  eyes ;  and  she  knew  she  must  tuck 
them  in  to  be  presentable,  for  the  big  man  who  was 
watching  her  was  handsome  and  she  did  n't  want 
him  to  think  she  was  a  dowd.  So  she  tucked  the 
wisps  in,  drew  a  deep  breath  of  thankfulness  for 
the  cooling  breeze,  and  smiled  at  the  big  man.  But 
she  was  very  tired,  the  big  chair  was  very  comfort 
able,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  get  up.  She  would 
get  up  presently,  though,  for  she  must  get  back  to 
the  Triangle  L. 

"Feeling  better?"  asked  the  big  man. 


I58  WEST! 

"How  is  he?"  she  questioned,  not  answering  the 
question. 

"Artwell  will  get  well,"  he  said.  "He  is  n't  badly 
hurt.  Weak  from  loss  of  blood.  He 's  inside, 
sleeping  it  off."  His  gaze  was  keen,  bright,  in 
terested.  "Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  'm  Josephine  Hamilton." 

"I  see.  Betty  Lawson's  guest.  From  the  East. 
Went  to  school  with  Betty.  You  see,  I  have  heard 
of  you." 

"Evidently,"  she  smiled.  "And  you  are  Mr. 
Lattimer,  of  course." 

"Why,  'of  course'?"  he  said. 

She  was  almost  on  the  point  of  saying  she  knew 
he  was  Lattimer  because  he  answered  Betty  Law- 
son's  decription  of  Lattimer,  which  was,  "He 's 
terribly,  darkly  handsome."  Instead  she  blushed 
and  told  him  about  fin-ding  Artwell  at  the  stable 
door,  detailing  the  incident  and  ending  with  the 
statement  that  Artwell  had  indicated  that  the  Latti 
mer  ranch  would  be  found  southward. 

Never  had  Josephine  seen  a  man  like  Lattimer. 
As  he  stood  there  watching  her,  his  legs  slightly 
a-sprawl,  his  arms  folded  over  his  chest,  his  chin 
lowered  so  that  he  could  look  into  her  eyes  without 
effort,  she  was  reminded  of  another  illuminating 
scrap  of  Betty's  description  of  him:  "If  he  had 
lived  two  hundred  years  ago  he  would  have  been  a 
pirate."  And  "Lattimer's  ancestors  were  very 


WEST!  159 

likely  buccaneers  or  swash-buckling  gentlemen  of 
fortune." 

But  what  a  pirate  he  would  have  been!  Still 
Josephine  did  not  believe  he  would  have  been  a 
pirate.  "Gentleman,"  even  if  it  were  necessary  to 
add  "swash-buckling,"  described  him  more  ac 
curately,  she  thought.  For  despite  the  fact  that 
about  him  lurked  an  atmosphere  of  bold  reckless 
ness,  which  she  could  feel  but  could  not  definitely 
analyze,  there  was  gentle  consideration  in  his  eyes, 
and  deference,  even  though  they  were  somewhat 
contradicted  by  a  hint  of  guile  and  cynical  amuse 
ment. 

Physically  he  looked  like  an  athlete  out  of  train 
ing.  For  under  his  woolen  shirt  were  muscles  that 
bulged  the  garment,  especially  at  the  shoulders ; 
and  the  collar,  carelessly  left  open,  revealed  a  strong 
neck  sheathed  by  smooth  bronzed  flesh,  healthy  and 
firm. 

He  had  accumulated  some  flesh  about  the  middle  ; 
but  not  enough  to  detract  from  the  symmetrical 
proportions  of  the  rest  of  him;  and  the  girl  per 
ceived  that  even  with  the  surplus  flesh  he  carried 
he  was  as  lithe  and  springy  as  a  runner. 

His  hat  was  off,  crumpled  on  another  chair. 
His  head  was  well  shaped,  and  his  short,  close-cut 
black  hair  was  glossy,  virile.  Above  his  forehead, 
which  was  white  and  well-formed,  some  of  the 
black  hair  had  matted  from  perspiration  which 


160  WEST! 

clustered  in  glistening  beads.  Josephine  thought 
that  was  one  reason  she  had  got  the  impression  of 
recklessness;  a  serene,  methodical,  and  careful  man 
would  have  brushed  the  moisture  away  when  facing 
a  woman. 

The  rest  of  the  recklessness  was  in  his  eyes,  in  the 
lines  of  his  mouth  and  in  the  bold  contour  of  his  chin 
and  the  sweep  of  his  jaw.  Josephine  could  under 
stand  why  Betty  had  got  so  much  respect  into  her 
words  :  "He  is  a  man !" 

Yet  Lattimer's  masculinity  was  not  aggressive. 
It  was  a  subtle  quality  that  insinuated  itself  by  the 
very  restraint  the  man  put  upon  it.  It  seemed  to 
Josephine  that  though  Lattimer  knew  he  was  mas 
culine  to  the  limits  of  his  sex,  consciousness  of  sex 
was  not  visible  in  his  eyes. 

Observing  that  Josephine  betrayed  no  inclina 
tion  to  leave  her  chair,  Lattimer  drew  another  in 
front  of  her  and  dropped  into  it. 

"You  and  Artwell  have  met  before,"  he  said. 
"I  Ve  heard  about  that.  You  sort  of  spoiled 
Brannon's  plans  there,  didn't  you?"  His  eyes 
glowed  with  deep,  humorous  appreciation  of  her 
actions  in  antagonizing  Brannon. 

"I  didn't  want  Brannon  to  hang  an  innocent 
man!"  she  declared. 

"Then  Artwell  was  innocent  ?  You  knew  that,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"He — he  looked  innocent.     Besides,   he  was  so 


WEST!  161 

young — too  young  to  die  for  stealing  a  horse — 
even  if  he  did  steal  it." 

"H'm.  Steel  will  have  his  way  in  the  end, 
though.  There 's  no  stopping  Brannon,  once  he 
takes  hold  of  a  thing.  'Steel'  just  fits  him.  Strike 
you  that  way?" 

"I  think  he  is  merely  stubborn." 

"Well,  you'd  think  that,  of  course — him  oppos 
ing  you.  But  Brannon  is  reasonable.  If  you  are 
right  he'll  let  you  have  your  way;  if  he's  wrong 
he  '11  admit  it." 

She  had  no  comment  to  make  on  that  statement, 
so  she  was  silent,  looking  out  into  the  basin  where 
a  painted  butte  frowned  upon  the  waters  of  a  little 
river,  now  glittering  in  the  rays  of  the  silvery  sun 
just  sticking  its  rim  over  the  crest  of  the  low  hill 
on  the  edge  of  the  basin. 

And  now  she  was  agitated  by  the  disquieting 
realization  that  she  would  have  explanations  to 
make  when  she  returned  to  the  Triangle  L;  for  she 
would  be  missed,  of  course,  as  would  Chesterfield 
and  the  horse  Artwell  had  ridden.  She  meditated 
upon  the  embarrassing  position  in  which  she  had 
placed  herself — that  of  having  to  explain  her  activ 
ities  of  the  night  to  Betty,  or  of  having  to  lie,  which 
she  would  do,  of  course,  to  keep  Brannon  from 
riding  over  to  capture  Artwell.  And  she  blushed, 
betraying  her  agitation  by  nervously  gripping  the 
arms  of  the  chair  in  which  she  was  sitting. 


1 62  WEST! 

"Look  here,"  said  Lattimer  instantly,  "You  're 
upset.  You  've  had  a  mighty  tough  night  of  it. 
You  sit  where  you  are  for  a  few  minutes  while  I 
rustle  you  some  grub." 

"I — I  don't  believe  I  could  eat  a  bite,"  she  said 
smiling  wanly.  "Besides,  I  have  n't  time.  I 
must  go  right  away — this  minute!  Betty  will  be 
worried  about  me ;  she  will — "  she  paused,  pressing 
her  lips  tightly  together  to  suppress  an  emotion  that 
was  filling  her  eyes  with  a  suspicious  mist.  She 
did  n't  wa-nt  Betty  to  think  ill  of  her;  she  felt  she 
could  not  endure  the  stea-dy  gaze  of  her  friend's 
honest  eyes  while  she  attempted  to  explain  the 
night's  adventure. 

"Worrying,"  said  Lattimer  soberly.  "Well, 
that's  right — you  would.  But  if  you  don't  mind 
telling  a  white  lie,  we  can  manage  it.  I  '11  get  you 
some  breakfast  and  then  you  can  light  out  for  the 
Whitman  cabin.  Tell  Mrs.  Whitman  just  what 
has  happened.  She  's  helped  Artwell  out  of  more 
than  one  bad  fix,  and  she  '11  help  him  again.  She 
likes  Artwell — believes  in  him.  And  she  '11  lie  to 
save  his  life.  It 's  mighty  simple.  All  you  have  to 
do  is  to  have  Mrs.  Whitman  tell  Betty  or  Brannon 
or  anybody  that  you  were  with  her  all  night." 

"But  the  horse  Artwell  rode?"  inquired  Jose 
phine.  "They  '11  miss  it,  and  they  '11  think — " 

Lattimer's  low  laugh  interrupted  her. 

"I    reckon    whatever    thinking    they    do    won't 


WEST !  163 

amount  to  much,"  he  said.  "I  've  stripped  the  sad 
dle  and  bridle  off  the  horse  Artwell  rode  and  headed 
him  toward  the  Triangle  L.  Maybe  he  '11  go 
straight  there,  or  maybe  he'll  decide  to  loaf  around 
the  range  for  a  while.  It  won't  make  any  differ 
ence.  When  they  find  you  've  gone  away  on  Ches 
terfield  they  '11  decide  you  carelessly  left  the  stable 
door  open  and  the  other  horse  got  out.  That  hap 
pens  frequently,  you  know.  I  've  got  the  saddle 
and  bridle  put  away.  Some  day  a  Triangle  L  man 
will  find  it  and  will  wonder  why  it  was  overlooked. 
Come  now,  brace  up.  You've  saved  a  man's  life; 
you  Ve  shown  grit.  Don't  spoil  it." 

"If  you  are  sure  about  Mrs.  Whitman 
— ,"  began  Josephine.  She  was  eager  now; 
filled  with  admiration  for  Lattimer's  resourceful 
ness. 

"Shucks !"  he  interrupted,  smiling  with  broad  as 
surance. 

He  went  into  the  house.  Josephine  could  hear 
him  moving  about.  A  little  later  he  appeared  in 
a  doorway. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  Miss  Hamilton,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

She  got  up,  hesitated,  blushed,  and  stood  irres 
olute.  She  was  hungry  now,  but  the  act  of 
breakfasting  with  a  strange  man  in  a  house  occupied 
only  by  themselves  and  a  sick  man  who  could  not 
act  as  chaperon  was  startlingly  unconventional  and 


164  WEST! 

at  variance  with  her  preconceived  ideas  of  wom 
anly  deportment. 

Lattimer  observed  her  hesitation. 

"Breakfast  is  served  for  one,  of  course,  Miss 
Hamilton,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  hint  of  mockery 
in  his  voice.  "I  had  mine  some  time  ago.  Also, 
I  expect  to  enjoy  the  air  while  you  are  inside." 

He  stepped  out  upon  the  veranda,  bowed  to  her 
as  she  passed  him  with  an  embarrassed  smile  and  a 
blush,  and  then  seated  himself  on  the  veranda  edge 
and  smoked  a  huge  pipe  while  waiting  for  her  to 
finish. 

When  at  last  she  came  out  Lattimer  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe,  got  up,  and  smiled  at  her. 

"Feeling  better?" 

"Decidedly  better." 

In  the  glance  they  exchanged  as  they  stood  close 
together,  each  betrayed  knowledge  of  the  other's 
thoughts.  It  was  plain  to  Josephine  that  Lattimer 
had  enjoyed  her  embarrassment;  a  light  in  his  eyes 
which  said  plainly:  "Well,  you  had  no  reason  to 
fear  me,  after  all,  did  you?"  convinced  her. 

"You  had  no  breakfast,"  she  said. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"There  would  have  been  signs — dishes,  pans. 
Besides,  I  heard  you  building  a  fire  in  the  stove. 
It  was  selfish  of  me,"  she  admitted,  reddening 
again.  "But  you  see — " 

"I  see  many  things,   Miss  Hamilton.     For  one 


WEST !  165 

thing,  word  of  the  evil  reputation  I  bear  has 
reached  your  ears.  Betty  Lawson  has  been  talk 
ing  about  me.  She  said:  'Satan  Lattimer  is  not 
to  be  trusted.'  Wasn't  it  that?" 

"No."  Josephine's  gaze  was  steady.  "Do  you 
think  I  should  have  come  here  if  I  had  heard  that 
about  you?  Not  even  to  save  Artwell  from  hang 
ing!  Betty  told  me  you  were  a  real  man.  You 
have  proved  it  this  morning;  and  I  thank  you." 

She  saw  his  eyes  light  with  a  strange  fire.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath.  Then  the  light  died  out  of 
his  eyes;  they  glinted  with  a  mocking  incredulity, 
which  passed  swiftly  to  be  replaced  by  steady, 
serene  amusement.  He  laughed,  lowly,  vibrantly. 

"Betty  's  a  wonder."  He  was  serious  again ; 
his  gaze  was  level,  direct. 

"I  expect  Betty  is  n't  feeling  any  too  joyful 
right  now,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Josephine's  color 
changed;  her  eyes  were  troubled.  "Oh,"  she 
said,  "I  suppose  you  refer  to  her  discovering  my 
absence." 

"Referring  to  Brannon  killing  Callahan.  It 
is  n't  generally  known,  but  Betty  thinks  a  great  deal 
of  Brannon;  and  Brannon  hasn't  eyes  to  see  it." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  astonished.  "How  did 
you  hear  about  Callahan?" 

"Cole  Meeder  rode  over  here  yesterday  after 
noon.  Meeder  is  n't  satisfied  with  Brannon's  story 


1 66  WEST! 

— nor  with  yours,  for  that  matter.  You  see,  the 
two  stories  did  n't  gibe.  You  told  Meeder  Callahan 
attacked  you  on  the  gallery;  Brannon  said  he  saw 
Callahan  prowling  around  on  the  porch,  and  shot 
him,  thinking  he  was  Denver.  Remembering  the 
bad  blood  between  Callahan  and  Brannon,  Meeder 
is  suspicious  that  either  you  or  Brannon  is  lying." 

Josephine  could  not  endure  Lattimer's  steadi 
gaze.  Her  own  dropped;  she  felt  a  wave  of  tell 
tale  color  slowly  surging  into  her  cheeks.  When 
at  last  she  defiantly  raised  her  eyes  to  Lattimer's, 
there  was  an  amused,  comprehending  smile  on  his 
lips. 

She  gasped;  Lattimer  laughed  softly. 

"You  did  the  fibbing,  Miss  Hamilton,"  he  said. 
"No,  I  am  not  a  mind-reader,  though  you  gave 
yourself  away  just  now.  But  I  did  n't  use  that 
evidence.  You  see,  I  knew  Callahan.  Callahan 
wouldn't  do  what  you  accused  him  of.  Of  course, 
you  had  to  make  it  strong  to  Meeder  if  you  wanted 
to  save  Brannon.  What  I  can't  understand  is 
why  you  wanted  to  save  Brannon  at  the  cost  of 
Callahan's  reputation.  If  Brannon  did  the  kill 
ing  he  ought  to  be  man  enough  to  take  the  blame 
without  depending  upon  such  a  story  as  you  told." 

"He  did  take  the  blame!"  she  declared.  "You 
said  so  only  a  minute  ago!" 

"Well,"  he  said,  his  eyes  glowing  with  admira- 


WEST !  167 

tion,  "you  Ve  got  the  spirit  to  stick  up  for  your 
friends." 

"Brannon  is  n't  my  friend !"  she  declared.  "I 
— I  merely  said  that — " 

She  paused,  frightened,  realizing  that  she  had 
been  on  the  point  of  betraying  herself;  aware  that 
she  had  already  said  enough  to  make  Lattimer's 
suspicion  a  certainty.  She  was  convinced  of  it 
when  she  caught  Lattimer's  glance. 

"Miss  Hamilton,"  he  said  gravely,  "Your  secret 
is  safe  with  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact  we  both  have 
secrets.  For  if  it  were  known  that  I  am  shielding 
Les  Artwell,  if  Brannon  and  the  Triangle  L  boys 
knew  about  me  appropriating  the  saddle  and  bridle 
I  took  from  that  Triangle  L  horse  a  little  while 
ago,  this  country  would  be  very  unsafe  for  me.  It 
seems  we  've  both  got  to  be  careful  what  we  say." 
He  laughed.  "If  we  are  not  careful,  our  principle 
of  helping  the  under  dog  will  get  us  both  into 
trouble." 

She  was  watching  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  if  it  were  discovered 
that  you  had  taken  Artwell  in  after — after 
I  brought  him  here;  that  you — that  Brannon 
would  be  justified  in  accusing  you  of  complic 
ity?"  . 

"If  I  kept  Artwell  here — as  I  mean  to  do  until 
he  gets  well  enough  to  travel.  Yes,  Brannon 
could  accuse  me  of  that,  and  under  present  condi- 


1 68  WEST! 

tions  he  'd  very  likely  be  supported  by  the  entire 
country." 

"W — what  conditions?" 

"You  haven't  heard,  eh?  Well,  there  is  no 
proof,  as  yet;  but  there  is  a  rather  well-founded 
suspicion  in  the  minds  of  nearly  all  of  the  cattle 
men  in  the  vicinity  that  a  well-organized  band  of 
horse-thieves  is  working  in  the  section.  A  good 
many  men  are  under  suspicion — perhaps  myself. 
Les  Artwell  is  another,  though  I  believe  he  is  as 
innocent  as  I  am." 

"Why,  then — if  Artwell  is  guilty — I  have  helped 
him!" 

She  stood,  appalled.  The  possibility  of  Art- 
well's  guilt  had  not  occurred  to  her.  He  was  so 
young,  and  his  sullen  eyes  had  seemed  so  com 
pletely  to  express  a  conviction  that  he  was  being 
persecuted,  that  she  had  not  thought  it  possible  he 
could  be  guilty. 

"Artwell  is  n't  guilty,"  came  Lattimer's  voice  re 
assuringly.  "Don't  be  frightened;  and  don't  let 
anybody  wheedle  you  into  talking  as  you  talked  to 
me  a  few  minutes  ago — about  Brannon." 

She  felt  one  of  his  hands  on  her  shoulder,  gently 
urging  her  off  the  porch  to  the  ground  beside  it. 
She  looked  up  at  Lattimer,  wondering  at  the  easy 
familiarity  of  his  touch;  surprised  that  there  was 
no  resentment  in  her  heart  over  the  action.  Was 


WEST!  169 

it  that  the  culpability  of  both  under  the  "condi 
tions"  he  had  mentioned  had  created  a  bond  between 
them ;  or  was  she  under  the  spell  of  that  insinuat 
ingly  subtle  dominance  which  she  had  felt  with  her 
first  glance  at  him — the  dominance  of  the  con 
queror  of  women,  supremely  confident  of  his  pow 
ers? 

She  did  not  know.  She  was  aware  that  she 
liked  him ;  that  his  touch  thrilled  her — more  deeply 
than  had  Brannon's  when  he  had  placed  a  hand  on 
her  hair  in  the  big  room  of  the  Triangle  L  ranch- 
house.  And  as  she  rode  toward  the  Whitman 
cabin,  after  Lattimer  had  got  her  horse  and  pointed 
out  the  trail  to  her,  she  mentally  acknowledged, 
though  she  blushed  at  the  admission,  that  she  rather 
enjoyed  being  dominated  by  the  man. 

Lattimer  watched  her  from  the  porch,  until  she 
diminished  to  a  mere  dot  in  his  vision.  Then,  his 
eyes  chilling,  he  entered  the  house,  walking  heavily 
through  the  kitchen  and  entering  another  room  in 
which,  on  a  bed,  lay  Les  Artwell.  Seated  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  was  Denver. 

Denver  had  been  attending  Artwell's  wound,  as 
Artwell's  shirt,  open  at  the  chest  where  there  was 
a  ragged  hole  through  a  big  muscle,  testified;  and 
Artwell  was  again  conscious,  though  his  eyes  were 
rather  bright  and  his  color  high. 

Denver  looked  up  as  Lattimer  entered;  but  Lat- 


1 70  WEST! 

timer  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  strode  to  the 
bed  and  stood  over  Artwell.  The  chill  was  still  in 
Lattimer's  eyes. 

"Artwell  he  said  coldly,  "why  did  you  kill  Tim 
Callahan?" 

The  wounded  man's  color  heightened;  his  gaze 
shifted;  a  deadly  fear  glinted  his  eyes. 

"The  damn  fool  stumbled  right  onto  me,"  he 
finally  blurted.  "I  was  headed  for  here,  and  tryin' 
to  get  back  without  anybody  seein'  me.  Callahan 
come  a-tearin'  out  of  some  timber  about  a  mile  an' 
a  half  from  the  Triangle  L.  My  hoss  had  thro  wed 
me  an'  was  cuttin'  it.  I  was  aimin'  to  ketch 
him  when  Callahan  busted  out  of  the  timber 
an'  throwed  down  on  me — him  recognizin'  me 
by  the  moonlight,  I  reckon,  which  was  plenty 
bright. 

"I  tumbled  down  into  a  shallow  gully,  an'  I  reckon 
I  was  laid  out  for  a  time;  for  when  I  come  to  an' 
crawled  back  to  the  top  of  the  gully  I  saw  Callahan 
leadin'  his  hoss  back  toward  the  Triangle  L — the 
hoss  bein'  lamed  bad.  I'd  lost  my  temper  a  little 
an'  I  followed  Callahan,  gettin'  within  range  just 
as  he  got  to  the  door  of  the  ranch-house.  I  figgered 
he'd  gone  back  there  for  a  fresh  hoss. 

"I  let  him  have  it.  Then,  feelin'  pretty  weak, 
an'  knowin'  some  one  was  in  the  house  an'  in  the 
foreman's  shack,  I  slipped  around  back  an'  got  into 
the  stable,  figgerin'  to  saddle  a  hoss  an'  light  out. 


WEST!  171 

I   must  have  keeled   over,    for  the  next   thing  I 
knowed — " 

"I  know  the  rest  of  it,"  said  Lattimer.  "You 
took  a  big  chance,  Les,  by  letting  your  temper  get 
the  best  of  you.  Do  you  know  Brannon  was  in  his 
shack  when  you  got  Callahan?" 

The  chill  left  his  eyes;  they  narrowed,  gleamed 
with  sardonic  amusement. 

"Luck!"  he  exclaimed,  laughing  deeply.  "You 
did  a  good  job  after  all,  Les.  By  sending  Callahan 
out  you  settled  a  personal  grudge  and  got  rid  of  a 
man  who  was  beginning  to  get  mighty  suspicious 
of  us.  And  you've  got  Meeder  and  all  the  rest  of 
them  thinking  Brannon  put  Callahan  out  of  the 
way,  which,  because  of  the  bad  blood  between  the 
Star  and  the  Triangle,  will  keep  both  outfits  pretty 
busy  watching  each  other. 

"But  Brannon  's  got  me  guessing.  Artwell,  you 
did  for  Callahan.  What  do  you  suppose  made 
Brannon  ride  over  to  the  Star  and  tell  Cole  Meeder 
he  killed  Callahan  ?  We  've  got  to  watch  ourselves 
on  that  point;  Brannon's  got  something  up  his 
sleeve!" 

Denver  laughed  harshly.  "It 's  a  petticoat !" 
he  said  venomously. 

"Betty  Lawson?"  Lattimer  had  wheeled  to  face 
Denver;  he  was  watching  Denver  with  a  coldly 
speculative  gaze. 

"Haw!  haw!"  laughed  Denver.     "Brannon  ain't 


172  WEST! 

got  sense  enough  to  see  that  Betty  's  dead  in  love 
with  him.  It  's  that  female  which  has  just  pulled 
her  freight  away  from  here  that  Brannon  's  got  his 
eye  on!" 

"How  do  you  know,  Denver?"  Lattimer's  voice 
was  low,  even ;  but  there  was  passion  behind  it. 

"How  do  I  know?  Hell!"  Denver  got  up  from 
the  bed  and  leered  into  Lattimer's  face.  With  bra 
zen  disregard  for  the  moral  aspect  of  the  tale,  and 
seemingly  with  no  shame  for  his  own  dastardly 
part  in  the  affair,  he  related  the  story  of  his  attack 
on  Josephine,  together  with  his  clashes  with  Bran 
non.  He  told  how  he  had  stood  outside  the  house 
while  Brannon  had  patted  Josephine's  hair,  and 
how  he  had  watched  Brannon  surrender  his  gun  to 
the  girl. 

"I  reckon  when  a  guy  will  do  them  things  a  girl 
has  got  him  goin'  pretty  strong,"  he  laughed  in  con 
clusion. 

Lattimer  had  not  changed  position  during  the  tell 
ing  of  Denver's  story,  nor  had  his  face  changed 
expression.  But  when  Denver  finished  Lattimer 
walked  close  to  him  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

Denver  must  have  correctly  read  the  expression, 
for  his  pallor  became  ghastly,  and  he  muttered 
thickly,  rapidly,  "I  only  meant  to  kiss  her,  boss, 
so  help  me  Gawd!" 

"Even  that  was  too  much,"  said  Lattimer.  His 
voice  was  dry  and  light  but  well-controlled,  though 


WEST!  173 

with  a  sinister  threat  lurking  in  it  that  blanched 
even  Artwell's  face.  Denver  seemed  paralyzed  by 
the  menace  of  Lattimer's  manner,  and  he  stood  mo 
tionless,  loose-lipped,  fearful. 

"Too  much,  Denver,"  repeated  Lattimer  in  the 
same  voice.  "Don't  touch  her;  don't  even  look  at 
her  again  where  I  can  see  you.  She  belongs  to 
me!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT  daybreak  a  thin  column  of  smoke  spiraled 
upward  from  the  Triangle  L  foreman's 
shanty,  flattening  out  when  it  met  a  thin  mist  like 
that  which  had  attracted  Josephine's  attention  fifteen 
miles  southward. 

Shortly  after  the  smoke  appeared  Brannon 
emerged  from  the  cabin,  went  to  the  windmill  for 
water  and  returned.  Half  an  hour  later  he  was  in 
the  corral  roping  his  horse — the  big  black. 

He  had  got  saddle  and  bridle  on  the  animal,  had 
trailed  the  reins  over  its  head,  and  was  closing  the 
corral  gate,  when  he  glanced  toward  the  stable. 
Unhurried,  he  locked  the  corral  gate,  patted  the 
black  horse  affectionately  on  a  hip,  and  walked  to 
ward  the  stable. 

Passing  the  bunk-house  Lin  Murray  called  to 
him  sonorously: 

"I  '11  be  with  you  soon  's  I  can  rustle  up  some 
grub!" 

"Take  your  time,  Lin,"  returned  Brannon. 

He  was  walking  on  when  Murray's  voice  reached 
him  again: 

"Chong  came  in  about  midnight.  His  hoss  is 
in  the  corral.  Says  Mrs.  Whitman  's  a  lot  better." 

i74 


WEST !  175 

Brannon's  eyes  quickened.  While  at  the  corral 
gates  his  glance  stableward  had  shown  him  a  horse, 
saddled  and  bridled,  standing  in  the  lee  of  a  lean-to 
at  the  side  of  the  structure — a  building  used  for 
the  storing  of  miscellaneous  articles.  His  first 
thought  was  that  Chong  had  left  his  horse  saddled 
and  bridled  during  the  night,  thus  being  guilty  of 
reprehensible  negligence.  For  he,  too,  had  heard 
Chong  ride  in,  had  heard  him  muttering  softly  in 
his  unintelligible  jargon. 

But  Murray's  statement  that  Chong  had  turned 
his  horse  into  the  corral  indicated  that  the  horse 
standing  near  the  lean-to  was  not  the  one  Chong 
had  ridden ;  and  Brannon's  interest  was  now  keenly 
suspicious  rather  than  critical. 

Standing  close  to  the  strange  horse,  Brannon 
gravely  inspected  him,  his  eyes  gleaming  when  he 
saw  on  the  beast's  hip  a  well-defined  "L,"  lying  on 
its  side.  It  was  Lattimer's  brand,  the  Lazy  L. 

Brannon  spoke  gently  to  the  horse  and  walked 
slowly  around  it.  The  saddle  was  covered  with  a 
thick  layer  of  dust;  the  high  pommel  was  battered 
and  looked  as  though  it  had  been  driven  deeply  into 
the  ground,  for  there  were  hardened  particles  of 
earth  clinging  to  it.  The  cantle,  too,  was  battered, 
as  though  some  heavy  weight  had  struck  it.  The 
bridle-rein  was  broken  and  the  latigo-strings  had 
been  torn  from  their  holes. 

"He  's  been  rolling,"  was  Brannon's  mental  ob- 


1 76  WEST! 

servation.  "Roaming  the  country  without  a  rider, 
for — well,  maybe  last  night — or  longer,"  he  con 
cluded  after  examining  the  dust  on  the  saddle 
and  the  battered  horn  and  cantle. 

Brannon  unstrapped  the  slicker,  laid  it  on  the 
ground,  and  unrolled  it,  Various  articles  were  dis 
closed — a  tin  cup,  a  bit  of  mirror,  a  shaving-brush, 
soap,  a  small  coffee-pot,  a  can  of  tomatoes — an  ad 
mirable  thirst  quencher — a  canvas-covered  can 
teen  full  of  water,  several  other  articles,  and  some 
food  and  matches. 

Brannon's  interest  centered  upon  the  shaving- 
brush.  It  was  a  cheap  affair  with  a  wooden  handle 
upon  which  had  been  cut,  apparently  with  a  knife, 
the  initials  "L.  A." 

Brannon  could  find  no  marks  on  any  of  the 
other  articles.  But,  apparently  satisfied,  he  re 
stored  them  all  to  the  slicker,  rerolled  the  latter, 
and  strapped  it  to  the  cantle  of  the  saddle. 

Then,  his  eyes  gleaming,  he  peered  intently  at  the 
ranch-house,  to  see  that  the  window-shades  were 
still  drawn  and  that  no  smoke  came  from  the  kitchen 
chimney.  Chong  was  usually  astir  at  this  hour, 
but  evidently  his  night  ride  had  wearied  him. 
Betty,  he  knew,  would  not  arise  until  about  sun 
rise. 

Leading  the  strange  horse  behind  the  stable 
where  he  could  not  be  seen  from  the  house,  Bran 
non  relaced  the  cinch-straps  and  tied  the  broken 


WEST!  177 

reins  together.  Then  he  swung  into  the  saddle  and 
rode  slowly  toward  the  river,  still  keeping  the  stable 
between  himself  and  the  house.  The  river  was 
fringed  with  timber  for  a  point  near  the  corral 
fence.  Then  came  a  break,  where  he  was  forced  to 
risk  being  seen  from  the  house;  but  after  that  tim 
ber  and  brush  made  a  screen  behind  which  he  rode 
in  security. 

He  rode  the  horse  half  a  mile  down  the  river,  dis 
mounted  and  tied  him  to  a  tree  with  a  hackamore 
that  was  fastened  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  left 
the  animal  there,  and  walked  back  to  the  stable. 

The  ranch-house  was  still  swathed  in  silence; 
even  Murray  had  not  made  his  appearance;  and 
Brannon  had  apparently  not  been  seen. 

He  had  observed  that  the  stable  door  was  open. 
He  entered,  glanced  swiftly  into  the  stalls  and  at 
the  pegs  from  which  half  a  dozen  saddles  dangled; 
his  examination  resulting  in  the  conviction  that  two 
horses  and  saddles  were  missing. 

"Billy  and  Chesterfield,"  he  remarked  aloud. 
His  eyes  took  on  an  expression  of  cynical  amuse 
ment,  tempered  with  a  hint  of  the  grim  coldness 
that  had  brought  upon  him  the  cognomen  "Steel." 

"She's  sure  fanning  it  some!"  was  his  mental 
comment  upon  the  evidence  that  Josephine  was 
again  interfering  with  matters  that  should  not  con 
cern  her.  He  was  convinced  that  no  one  but  Jose 
phine  would  ride  Chesterfield.  Certainly  Betty 


i;8  WEST! 

would  not  ride  the  staid  old  animal;  and  if  Les  Art- 
well's  companion  were  a  man  he  would  have  chosen 
any  of  the  several  remaining  horses  in  the  stable  in 
preference  to  Chesterfield. 

But  Brannon  wanted  to  be  sure;  and  before  he 
left  the  ranch-house  to  go  southward  with  Murray 
he  meant  to  invent  some  excuse  that  would  enable 
him  to  arouse  the  occupants  of  the  ranch-house — 
either  Chong  or  Betty — to  discover  if  Josephine  had 
gone  out. 

He  walked  to  the  door  of  the  stable  and  glanced 
at  the  house.  His  gaze  went  downward  when  he 
observed  that  there  were  no  visible  signs  of  move 
ment  inside.  Instantly  he  went  to  his  knees  and 
intently  examined  a  crimson  stain  on  some  matted 
straw  in  the  doorway.  He  got  up  presently,  the 
movement  bringing  his  face  close  to  one  of  the 
door-jambs,  upon  which  were  other  crimson  stains, 
made,  undeniably,  by  fingers — a  woman's  fingers! 

Brannon  reentered  the  stable.  When  he  again 
came  to  the  door  he  was  convinced;  for  in  the 
straw  of  a  box  stall  was  the  impression  of  a  man's 
body,  and  other  red  stains,  showing  that  he  who 
had  been  wounded  had  been  in  the  stable  for  many 
hours. 

Brannon  closed  the  stable  door  and  went  to  the 
mess-house,  where  he  found  Murray  just  finishing 
breakfast. 

"Took  me  longer  'n  I  thought  it  would,"  growled 


WEST!  179 

Murray  when  he  saw  the  other.  "-Ain't  it  like 
that,  though,  all  the  time?  If  you  're  in  a  hurry, — 
not  wantin'  to  disappoint  some  one,  every  damned 
thing  seems  to  go  wrong.  There 's  that  mis'able 
stove.  I  built  one  fire  in  that  mis'able  stove,  an'  it 
went  out.  It 's  worse  'n  a — " 

"Brannon,"  came  Betty's  voice  from  the  mess- 
house  door,  "will  you  please  come  here  for  a 
minute  ?" 

Brannon  turned  swiftly.  Betty's  face  was  pale; 
her  lips  were  white.  The  forced  calmness  of  her 
voice  was  oddly  contradicted  by  the  restrained 
excitement  that  glowed  in  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  speak  until  Brannon  had  followed 
her  half-way  to  the  ranch-house;  and  before  she 
spoke  Brannon  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "something  has  happened  to 
Josephine!  Her  bed  has  not  been  slept  in,  and 
Chesterfield  is  gone!  What  do  you  suppose  has 
happened?  If  any  harm  has  come  to  her,  I — I  shall 
never  forgive  myself! 

"I  reckon  there  is  n't  much  that  could  happen," 
consoled  Brannon.  "She 's  gone  riding,  prob 
ably.  Yesterday  she  was  worried  about  Mrs. 
Whitman.  It 's  likely  she 's  ridden  over  there. 
I  '11  send  Murray  to  the  outfit  and  I  '11  slip  over 
to  Whitman's." 

"I'll  go  with  you,  Brannon!  You  don't  think — 
Denver  came  back — could  have  intercepted  her — 


i8o  WEST! 

if  she  did  go  to  Whitman's?  Brannon!"  she  cried 
in  exasperation  when  he  merely  shook  his  head 
negatively  at  her  mention  of  Denver;  "have  you 
no  nerves?  You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  Jo  is 
my  guest,  Brannon,  and  that  I  am  responsible  for 
her!" 

"Sure,"  he  agreed,  quickly.  "But  there 's  no 
need  of  two  of  us  going  to  Whitman's/'  He  was 
certain  Betty  would  not  find  Josephine  at  Whit 
man's;  and  he  was  thinking  of  the  Lazy  L  horse 
htiched  to  a  tree  in  the  river  bottom, 

He  caught  Betty's  horse,  and  while  she  was  inside 
the  ranch-house  changing  her  clothes  he  saddled 
and  bridled  the  animal. 

"Don't  get  to  worrying,"  he  advised  her  with  a 
smile  as  he  helped  her  into  the  saddle ;  "you  '11 
find  nothing  has  happened.  I  reckon  you  won't 
be  in  so  much  of  a  hurry  that  you  '11  ride  plumb 
into  that  quicksand  at  the  north  ford?" 

He  watched  her  horse  skitter  down  the  side  of 
a  little  gully,  up  the  other*  side,  and  across*  an  alkali 
flat. 

Later,  he  was  standing  at  the  corral  gate  with 
Murray,  who  had  mounted  and  was  waiting  for 
him. 

"Lin,"  he  said,  "I  've  changed  my  mind  about 
going  to  the  south  range.  Look  for  me  to-mor 
row." 


WEST!  181 

"Sure,"  said  Murray.  He  did  not  voice  his  mild 
surprise  over  the  change  in  Brannon's  plans. 

"Well,  so-long,"  he  said.  He  rode  half  a  dozen 
paces,  pulled  his  horse  up,  and  said  banteringly  over 
his  shoulder : 

"I  would  n't  be  playin'  no  lone  hand  right  now, 
Steel." 

"A  clean  miss,"  smiled  Brannon.  "It  is  n't  the 
Star  outfit." 

Murray's  expression  indicated  plainly  that  he 
was  curious;  but  he  shut  his  lips  disappointedly 
and  loped  his  horse  southward. 

Not  until  Murray  was  a  mere  dot  on  the  horizon 
did  Brannon  move.  Then  he  mounted  and  rode 
down  the  river  trail  to  where  he  had  left  the  Lazy  L 
horse.  A  few  minutes  later,  he  also  rode  away 
leading  the  other  beast,  following  a  dim  trail 
that  led  slightly  southwestward.  The  trail  Murray 
had  taken  went  directly  south. 

After  riding  several  miles  Brannon  glimpsed  a 
moving  dot  on-  a  low  ridge  at  his  right.  He 
abruptly  left  the  trail  he  had  been  riding  and  drop 
ped  into  a  dry  arroyo,  which  he  followed  half  a 
mile  to  a  sweep  of  grassy  land  which  melted  into 
the  ridge  upon  whose  crest  he  had  noted  the  moving 
dot. 

When  he  reached  the  crest  of  the  ridge  he  saw  a 
horse  grazing  in  a  little  grass-carpeted  valley  below 


182  WEST! 

him.  The  animal  was  a  sorrel;  with  an  irregular 
patch  of  white  on  its  right  side,  back  of  the 
shoulder  and  below  the  withers;  and  at  sight  of 
him  Brannon's  lips  straightened. 

"Billy,"  he  said  softly. 

A  doubt  that  had  been  disturbing  Brannon  had 
been  dispelled.  If  Billy  had  merely  strayed  from 
the  stable  in  search  of  grass  he  would  not  have 
come  in  this  direction  when  there  was  an  abundance 
eastward,  nearer  the  ranch-house,  where  there  was 
also  water. 

Brannon  trailed  the  reins  over  the  head  of  the 
Lazy  L  animal  and  urged  the  black  down  into  the 
valley,  approaching  Billy,  slowly.  He  wanted  a 
closer  look  at  Billy. 

He  roped  the  animal  and  threw  him.  And  when 
Billy  got  over  his  resentment  Brannon  walked  close 
to  him,  while  the  black  still  kept  the  rope  taut,  and 
inspected  him. 

Billy  had  been  confined  to  the  stable  for  several 
days  to  undergo  treatment  for  some  digestive  dis 
order.  Carson,  the  horse-wrangler,  had  taken  ex 
ceptional  care  of  him,  currying  him  daily.  Several 
times  Brannon  had  looked  in  at  the  animal  to  note 
his  progress. 

The  patch  of  white  behind  Billy's  shoulder  was 
stained  darkly.  Upon  his  back  were  prints  of  a 
saddle,  upon  his  ribs  was  the  impression  of  a  saddle- 
skirt,  and  around  his  belly  were  deep,  smooth, 


WEST !  183 

'sweat-matted  lines  where  the  broad  cinch-straps 
had  been  pressing  against  him.  The  stains  on  the 
white  patch  were  blood-stains,  and  they  showed  only 
in  a  narrow  streak  near  Billy's  shoulder  at  a  point 
left  exposed  by  the  saddle-blanket. 

Brannon  took  his  rope  off  the  animal  and  sent 
him  scurrying  over  the  back  trail,  riding  after  him 
for  a  considerable  distance,  until  Billy  was  far  ahead 
and  traveling  steadily. 

Then  Brannon  returned  to  the  Lazy  L  horse  and 
again  rode  the  south  trail. 

The  story  of  the  killing  of  Callahan  was  as 
plain  to  Brannon  now  as  though  it  were  printed  on 
the  pages  of  a  book.  After  removing  Callahan's 
body  to  his  shack  he  had  examined  the  gun  in  the 
man's  holster,  to  find  one  chamber  empty.  Because 
he  had  concluded  that  Josephine  had  shot  Callahan 
he  had  been  puzzled  by  the  empty  chamber  in  the 
man's  weapon,  though  he  finally  decided  that  Cal 
lahan  had  previously  done  some  shooting  and  had 
carelessly  neglected  to  reload  the  weapon. 

It  was  now  evident  that  Les  Artwell  had  re 
ceived  the  bullet  from  Callahan's  weapon;  though 
of  course  the  shooting  must  have  been  done  at  a  dis 
tance  from  the  ranch-house  or  the  sound  would  have 
been  heard.  Therefore  Artwell  must  have  trailed 
Callahan  after  being  shot,  killing  the  Star  owner 
when  the  latter  had  turned  his  back  while  on  the 
veranda. 


184  WEST! 

The  fact  that  Artwell  had  concealed  himself  in 
the  stable  accounted  for  the  fact  that  Brannon, 
after  running  to  the  veranda  immediately  after  the 
shooting  had  heard  no  scurrying  hoof-beats  which 
would  indicate  that  the  assassin  had  fled. 

Josephine  had  found  Artwell  in  the  stable  and 
had  helped  him  to  escape.  Artwell  was  badly 
wounded,  and  Josephine  had  taken  him  to  Lattimer's 
place. 

The  only  obscure  point  was  that  which  hinged 
upon  the  finding  by  Brannon  of  the  horse,  saddled 
and  bridled,  bearing  Lattimer's  brand;  though  even 
that  point  was  not  so  puzzling  when  one  took  into 
account  the  condition  of  the  saddle,  the  broken- 
reins,  and  the  discovery  of  the  initials  on  the  shav 
ing-brush  that  Brannon  had  found  in  the  slicker. 
Artwell  had  ridden  the  horse,  of  course;  but  whether 
he  had  stolen  it  from  Lattimer,  or  whether  Lattimer 
had  sold  or  lent  it  to  him  was  a  question.  The 
fact  that  Josephine  had  taken  Artwell  to  Lattimer's 
ranch  seemed  to  indicate  friendliness  between  the 
two  men;  and  any  sort  of  a  friendship  between  even 
an  honest  cattle-man  and  a  known  horse-thief  was 
a  suspicious  circumstance  which  required  rigid  in 
vestigation. 

However,  Brannon  did  not  intend  to  voice  his 
suspicions.  Nor  did  he  intend  to  make  any  im 
mediate  effort  to  capture  Les  Artwell.  It  had  been 
through  his  instrumentality  that  Artwell  had  been 


WEST!  185 

apprehended  the  other  time:  and  he  was  rather 
glad  now  that  Josephine  Hamilton  had  interfered; 
was  glad  that  she  had  again  meddled  with  the  mat 
ter  ;  for  by  doing  so  she  had  brought  suspicion  upon 
Lattimer,  had  developed  a  new  lead  which  might 
result  in  the  apprehension  of  the  entire  band  of 
thieves,  instead  of  only  Les  Artwell. 

Beneath  Brannon's  satisfaction  was  a  deeper 
emotion — a  vast  relief  over  the  discovery  that  Jose 
phine  had  not  shot  Callahan.  Her  championship  of 
Artwell,  her  activities  of  last  night,  and  her  mistake 
in  riding  with  the  horse-thief  to  Lattimer's  ranch 
could  be  explained  by  her  devotion  to  the  principles 
she  had  already  expounded  and  defended,  and  by 
her  determined,  if  somewhat  arbitrary,  attempts 
to  regulate  human  conduct  in  her  new  environment. 

But  the  emotion  that  struck  deep  into  Brannon's 
consciousness,  that  filled  him  with  a  solemn  exhil 
aration  which  he  attempted  to  fight  with  cynical 
amusement — and  could  not — was  caused  by  the  re 
alization  that  Josephine  had  lied  to  save  him! 

The  sun  was  swimming  high  when  Brannon  rode 
up  to  the  veranda  of  the  Lazy  L  ranch-house  and 
brought  the  black  horse  to  a  halt.  He  did  not  dis 
mount,  and  the  reins  of  the  led  horse  were  looped 
in  his  left  arm. 

Inside  the  house  Lattimer,  Denver,  and  Artwell 
heard  Brannon's  call.  They  had  been  watching 
him  for  fifteen  minutes;  and  when  the  black  horse 


1 86  WEST! 

halted  at  the  edge  of  the  veranda  Lattimer  coldly 
ordered  Denver  to  drop  the  rifle  he  had  picked  up. 

"None  of  that,  you  damn  fool !  You  'd  have  the 
whole  country  on  top  of  us!" 

In  the  interval  between  Brannon's  first  call  and 
the  next,  he  permitted  his  gaze  to  rove  around. 
Leisurely  he  scrutinized  the  corrals,  the  level  around 
the  house,  various  tracks  of  iron  shoes  on  the 
hard  ground;  observing  particularly  a  square 
of  white  linen  that  lay  crumpled  on  the  ground 
at  the  edge  of  the  veranda — a  woman's  handker 
chief. 

But  he  gave  no  sign  of  astonishment  or  interest 
at  what  he  saw.  The  keen,  suspicious  eyes  that 
watched  him  from  inside  the  ranch-house  were  un 
able  to  communicate  to  the  brains  of  their  owners 
any  odd  gleam  of  Brannon's  eyes  that  would  provide 
proof  that  Brannon  saw  anything  unusual. 

And  yet,  besides  the  handkerchief,  Brannon's 
leisurely  gaze  had  discovered  other  proof  that  Lat 
timer  had  visitors.  Denver's  horse  was  in  the  cor 
ral. 

Thus  Brannon  felt  he  was  being  watched.  How 
ever,  he  betrayed  no  indication  of  embarrassment  or 
suspicion.  With  the  reins  of  the  led  horse  still  in 
the  crook  of  his  left  elbow  he  rolled  a  cigarette, 
lighted  it,  and  sat  there  calmly  smoking. 

"That 's  the  horse  I  let  you  take,  Artwell,"  said 
Lattimer.  "Damn  him!"  he  laughed  with  a  grim 


WEST!  187 

admiration   for  Brannon's  unconcerned  demeanor; 
"he  's  got  nerve  !" 

"You  guys  lie  low;  I  've  got  to  show,  or  he  'ft 
get  suspicious,"  he  added. 

He  slipped  out  of  the  back  door,  ran  for  an  out 
building,  skirted  it,  ran  low  behind  a  wind-break 
near  the  stable,  and  came  into  view  at  the  other 
side  of  the  structure.  He  answered  Brannon's 
third  call  with  a  shout: 

"What's  up!" 

Brannon  waved  a  hand  in  greeting,  and  pulled 
the  black  around  so  that  he  faced  Lattimer  when 
the  latter  approached,  smiling  a  counterfeit  wel 
come. 

Brannon's  smile,  equally  insincere,  had  more 
depth  and  guile  than  the  other's ;  for  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Lattimer  as  he  passed  from  the  wind 
break  to  the  stable. 

"I  've  brought  you  a  horse,  Lattimer,"  he  said. 

"Hell — it 's  Streak !'"  said  Lattimer.  "We  missed 
him — and  a  saddle !"  He  met  Brannon's  level  gaze 
steadily.  "Brannon,"  he  said  angrily,  "those 
thieves  are  getting  damned  bold  when  they  '11  take 
a  horse  right  out  of  a  man's  stable!" 

"That 's  so,  Lattimer.  When  did  you  miss  your 
horse?" 

"Yesterday  morning.  Stable  door  was  wide  open 
Where  did  you  pick  him  up,  Brannon?" 

"About  ten  miles  back.     Murray  and  me  were 


i88  WEST! 

heading  for  the  south  range.     I  sent  Murray  on.'' 

Lattimer  had  caught  sight  of  the  handkerchief 
on  the  ground  at  the  edge  of  the  porch.  It  was 
close  to  him  and  he  placed  a  foot  on  it.  He  cast 
a  swift  glance  at  Brannon,  but  apparently  Brannon 
had  not  seen  the  movement  for  he  was  puffing  un 
concernedly  at  his  cigarette. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  Brannon,"  said  Lattimer. 

"Don't  take  on  any  airs,  Lattimer,"  said  Brannon, 
smiling  blandly  as  he  met  the  other's  gaze.  "These 
thieves  are  not  playing  favorites.  This  morning 
a  Triangle  L  horse  turned  up  missing.  Also  a 
saddle — and  a  bridle.  But  I  reckon  whoever  stole 
him  wanted  a  bridle  worse  than  a  horse.  For 
about  six  miles  out  I  ran  into  the  horse,  heading 
home.  There  were  saddle-marks  on  him,  but  no 
saddle  or  bridle.  Whoever  took  him  must  have  had 
another  horse  holed  up  somewhere — or  is  hoofing  it. 
You  have  n't  seen  a  rider  with  two  saddles  passing 
this  way?" 

"Not  even  with  one  saddle,"  laughed  Lattimer. 
"Nobody 's  been  past  here — at  least  if  they  did 
they  passed  before  I  rolled  out." 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  '11  be  getting  on,"  said  Brannon. 
"South  range  to-morrow.  Might  as  well  make  it 
a  day,  now.  I  'm  stopping  to  look  at  Ben  Whit 
man's  mother.  Wanting  to  send  any  word?" 

"Tell  her  I  'm  glad  she  's  better.     Heard  she  was 


He  met  Brannon's  level  gaze  steadilv 


WEST !  189 

sick  the  other  night — the  night  Tim  Callahan  got 
it."  He  looked  straight  at  Brannon. 

"Never  thought  it  of  Tim,"  said  Brannon. 
There 's  two  stories ;  mine  and  Miss  Hamilton's. 
She  says  Callahan  attacked  her.  Maybe  he  did ;  I 
did  n't  see  it.  She  'd  fought  him  off  and  closed  the 
door,  most  likely.  For  when  I  got  there  the  door 
was  closed  and  Callahan  was  on  the  gallery.  I 
downed  him,  thinking  he  was  Denver,  who  'd  been 
deviling  the  girl." 

Since  he  had  seen  the  handkerchief  on  the  ground 
and  had  observed  Lattimer's  eagerness  to  conceal 
it,  he  was  positive  that  Josephine  had  brought  Art- 
well  here;  was  convinced  that  both  Artwell  and 
Denver  were  in  the  house  and  that  one  or  both  of 
them  had  been  watching  him. 

Brannon  told  the  lie  with  a  steadiness  quite  as 
convincing  as  that  with  which  he  had  confronted 
the  Star  outfit.  Knowing  Brannon  was  lying, 
something  was  added  to  Lattimer's  grim  respect 
for  the  man's  iron-like  imperturbability. 

Brannon  was  aware  that  Lattimer  knew  he  was 
lying,  for  by  this  time  Les  Artwell  must  have  given 
the  other  some  inkling  of  what  had  happened. 
Also  the  fact  that  Denver's  horse  was  in  the  corral, 
the  presence  of  the  handkerchief  on  the  ground  un 
der  Lattimer's  foot,  together  with  Lattimer's  obvious 
determination  to  keep  secret  Josephine  Hamil- 


190  WEST! 

ton's  visit,  indicated  knowledge  that  was  almost 
complete,  with  the  possible  exception  of  a  few  un 
important  details. 

While  there  had  never  been  any  sort  of  a  friend 
ship  between  Brannon  and  Lattimer  nor  any  pre 
tense  of  cordiality,  there  had  been  in  the  hearts  of 
both  of  them  a  sober  respect  for  the  manly  quali 
ties  each  had  exhibited.  This  respect  on  Brannon's 
part  was  founded  upon  his  unerring  estimate  of 
Lattimer's  rugged,  aggressive  manhood,  instinc 
tively  determined  by  his  steady,  probing  gaze  into 
the  other's  eyes.  He  never  had  liked  Lattimer 
and  he  knew  something  of  the  man's  way  with 
women,  yet  he  knew  Lattimer  could  be  a  steadfast, 
loyal  friend  or  a  royal  enemy. 

Lattimer  had  formed  his  estimate  of  Brannon 
in  much  the  same  manner.  Confronting  Brannon 
at  this  minute,  Lattimer  knew  that  his  verbal  fencing 
meant  merely  that  though  Brannon,  was  suspicious — 
perhaps  entirely  convinced — he  meant  to  defer  action 
until  he  obtained  complete,  damning  evidence. 

Malicious  amusement  was  Lattimer's  present 
emotion. 

"Cole  Meeder  was  telling  me  both  stories, "he 
said.  "I  was  believing  the  one  Meeder  said  Miss 
Hamilton  told.  Tim  being  shot  in  the  back  sort  of 
indicated  you  had  to  shoot  mighty  quick — which 
you  'd  do  if  he  was  doing  what  Miss  Hamilton  said 
he  was  doing." 


WEST!  191 

Brannon's  face  betrayed  no  emotion  Lt  the 
other's  subtle  slur. 

"If  I  remember,  I  was  telling  you  I  thought 
Callahan  was  Denver,"  he  said.  "I  wasn't  figur 
ing  to  waste  any  time  on  that  polecat." 

Casually,  it  seemed,  with  no  hint  of  an  ulterior 
purpose  in  his  eye,  he  glanced  toward  the  corral; 
his  gaze  seeming  to  center  upon  Denver's  horse. 

Lattimer's  gaze  involuntarily  followed  Brannon's. 
A  dark  flush  stained  Lattimer's  neck  and  cheeks; 
but  when  he  shot  a  furtive  glance  at  Brannon  the 
other  seemed  not  to  have  noticed;  did  not  even 
look  toward  him.  Yet  now  Lattimer  had  recov 
ered  his  self-possession. 

"Denver,  eh?"  he  said,  smoothly.  "If  you'd 
look  right  close  you  'd  see  Denver's  horse  in  my 
corral.  That  roan,  with  the  black  fetlocks.  Den 
ver  drifted  this  way  early  yesterday  morning. 
Said  he  was  heading  west,  thinking  of  Laskar. 
I  traded  him  a  black  outlaw  horse  for  the  roan. 
I  was  sort  of  suprised  at  him  leaving  the  Triangle 
L,  but  did  n't  ask  any  question.  It 's  mighty 
plain  now.  So  you  had  trouble  with  him?" 

"Shucks!"  Brannon's  smile  was  coldly  con 
temptuous.  "A  man  don't  have  trouble  with  a 
hombre  like  Denver;  he  just  takes  his  gun  away 
and  turns  him  loose.  Denver's  brain  is  n't  very 
active,  Lattimer;  he  's  got  to  be  told  a  thing  straight, 
so  he  won't  misunderstand.  If  he  was  broad-gage, 


192  WEST ! 

like  you,  Lattimer,  I  would  n't  have  had  to  be  so 
sudden  with  him." 

He  turned  now  and  looked  at  Lattimer.  For  an 
instant  Lattimer's  eyes  chilled  as  when  he  had 
looked  at  Les  Artwell  and  Denver  inside  the  house. 
They  then  took  on  a  coldly  appreciative  glint,  oddly 
mingled  with  a  bold,  reckless  humor. 

Brannon  dropped  the  reins  of  the  Lazy  L  horse, 
wheeled  his  own  animal,  and  rode  away  northward, 
omitting  the  customary  parting  word,  "So-long," 
leaving  Lattimer  to  stare  after  him  with  a  full 
consciousness  of  the  sinister,  subtle  threat  that  had 
been  concealed  by  his  reference  to  "broad-gage" 
men. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ALTHOUGH  Betty  had  tried  her  best  to  main 
tain  her  usual  friendly  concern  for  Josephine 
the  night  before,  after  she  had  talked  with  Brannon 
near  Brannon's  cabin,  Josephine  had  detected  the 
constraint  in  Betty's  manner.  It  had  been  the  first 
time  since  Josephine  had  been  a  guest  at  the  Triangle 
L  that  Betty  had  not  accompanied  her  to  her  room, 
to  sit  on  the  bed  for  a  few  minutes  exchanging 
feminine  confidences. 

However,  Josephine  had  seen  nothing  significant 
in  Betty's  omission  of  the  nightly  communion,  until, 
riding  toward  the  Whitman  cabin  this  morning, 
she  began  to  seek  justification  for  her  action  in  tak 
ing  Artwell  to  Lattimer's  place.  Her  mind,  in 
voluntarily  groping  for  some  excuse,  seized  upon 
the  memory  of  Betty's  perplexed  expression  during 
the  interval  between  supper  and  Betty's  rather  stiffly 
formal  good-night,  and  magnified  it  into  distrust. 

Resentment  quickly  followed;  and  Josephine's 
cheeks  burned.  Why,  Betty's  manner  of  last  night, 
her  neglect,  her  constraint,  and  her  perplexity  con 
stituted  an  affront.  It  was  very  plain  to  Josephine 
that  Betty  had  not  believed  her  story  of  the  killing 
of  Callahan! 

193 


194  WEST! 

Josephine's  indignation  was  righteous  until  she 
remembered  that  she  had  lied  about  claiming  to 
have  seen  Brannon  shoot  the  Star  owner,  and  in 
asserting  that  Callahan  had  attacked  her.  Then 
Josephine's  cheeks  again  grew  hot. 

She  remembered,  though,  that  when  she  had  told 
Betty  that  she  and  Brannon  had  been  alone  at 
the  ranch-house  during  the  night,  Betty  had  looked 
sharply  at  her,  and  that  later  Betty  had  talked 
with  Brannon  while  Brannon  was  unloading  the 
buckboard;  that  still  later,  Betty  had  gone  to 
Brannon's  cabin.  Josephine  had  watched  her,  and 
she  now  remembered  that  Betty's  coolness  to 
ward  her  began  when  she  returned  from  Brannon's 
cabin. 

Was  it  possible  Betty  thought  there  was  some 
thing  reprehensible  in  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
alone  with  Brannon  during  the  night?  Did  Betty 
suspect  she  had  not  told  the  truth  about  the  killing 
of  Callahan ;  and  had  Brannon  told  the  truth,  thus 
convicting  her  of  a  rather  grotesque  falsehood? 

She  believed  Brannon  had  done  just  that;  and 
therefore  her  attempt  to  justify  his  shooting  of  the 
Star  owner  had  made  her  appear  ridiculous  in 
Betty's  eyes. 

Josephine's  formidable  chin  grew  more  formid 
able  as  she  drew  near  the  Whitman  cabin.  An 
accession  of  stubbornness,  following  certain  rebel- 


WEST!  195 

lious  impulses,  brought  a  flash  into  her  eyes  and 
made  her  lips  set  rigidly. 

If  Betty  could  think  these  things  of  her,  if  she 
chose  to  accept  Brannon's  word  against  hers,  it 
seemed  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  pack  her  be 
longings  and  return  East.  She  could  not  endure 
Betty's  suspicion;  she  could  not  remain  at  the  Tri 
angle  L  and  have  her  every  action  subjected  to  an 
alysis,  with  the  expectation  that  something  clandes 
tine  would  be  discovered.  That  sort  of  thing  would 
be  intolerable! 

And  vet  she  discovered  that  she  was  reluctant  to 

</ 

leave.  Subtle  forces,  which  she  was  not  as  yet 
prepared  to  describe — which  she  could  not  have 
described  if  she  had  tried — were  resisting  her  im 
petuous  decision. 

The  solemn  grandeur  of  the  country  was  begin 
ning  to  cast  its  spell  upon  her.  Insidious,  subtle, 
gradual,  had  come  her  realization  of  the  beauty  of 
the  virgin  country,  though  perhaps  she  would  not 
have  detected  her  enthralment  had  she  not  been 
confronted  with  the  possibility  of  leaving. 

Yet,  though  she  admired  the  country,  her  thoughts 
were  dwelling  upon  Lattimer;  and  she  kept  seeing 
the  man  as  he  had  stood  before  her  with  one  hand 
resting  familiarly  on  her  shoulder. 

Against  her  will  she  had  been  impressed  by 
Brannon,  realizing  the  intense  vitality  of  him  and 
subconsciously  sensing  the  appeal  he  had  made  to 


196  WEST! 

all  that  was  feminine  in  her.  But  the  impression 
Brannon  had  made  upon  her  was  not  to  be  compared 
with  the  lure  of  Lattimer. 

Lattimer  was  bigger  than  Brannon.  Brannon  was 
cold,  unemotional,  and  of  steel-like  smoothness. 
Lattimer  was  rugged,  intensely  human,  volatile, 
eager — a  slumbering  firebrand  of  passion.  He 
was  a  danger  to  be  dreaded,  a  mystery  to  be  solved ; 
and  the  very  hazard  of  coming  into  contact  with 
him,  in  arousing  him  to  a  sense  of  her  desirability, 
was  insinuatingly  delightful. 

So,  without  definitely  understanding  why,  she 
decided  she  could  not  leave,  despite  her  resentment 
of  Betty's  conduct  towards  her. 

On  her  previous  visit  to  the  Whitman  cabin  she 
had  not  encountered  Ben  Whitman;  and  when  she 
rode  up  to  the  gate  of  the  little  corral  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  cabin,  she  stared  in  amaze 
ment  at  the  lithe,  clear-eyed  young  giant  who 
greeted  her  with : 

"Good  mawnin',  ma'am." 

Betty  had  spoken  of  Mrs.  Whitman's  son,  Ben; 
and  because  Mrs.  Whitman  was  small  and  slight 
and  delicate,  Josephine  had  supposed  her  son  to  be 
like  her. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Whitman's  son?''  she  asked. 

"You  've  hit  it  first  pop,  ma'am,"  he  drawled. 

His  voice  was  certainly  not  small  or  delicate.  It 
was  deep,  vibrant,  and  delightfully  Southern,  as 


WEST!  197 

was  his  courtly,  deferential  bow  as  he  smiled  at  her. 

"I  reckon  you  're  Miss  Hamilton,  ma'am,"  he 
said — she  thought  to  cover  her  obvious  embar 
rassment.  "You  must  be  Miss  Hamilton,  of 
course,"  he  went  on ;  "because  you  're  the  only 
stranger  around  hyeh  just  now.  You  've  come  to 
see  mother,  I  reckon?" 

He  helped  her  from  Chesterfield  and  preceded  her 
to  the  house;  she  walking  behind  him,  observing 
how  supremely  unconscious  he  seemed  of  her  pres 
ence. 

At  the  door  he  halted,  opened  it  for  her. 

"You  '11  find  mother  in  the  sitting-room,"  he  said 
gently.  "She  '11  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  for 
she  's  beeen  talking  about  you  ever  since  you  were 
hyeh  before."  He  flashed  a  smile  at  her  as  she 
entered. 

Josephine  had  some  difficulty  in  stating  the  object 
of  her  errand.  But  once  she  began,  the  invalid's 
obvious  sympathy  made  the  task  an  easy  one. 

Mrs.  Whitman  was  sitting  in  a  big  chair,  which 
was  padded  with  soft  cushions  and  blankets ;  and 
her  birdlike  eyes,  gleaming  with  kindness  and  in 
terest,  never  wavered  from  Josephine's  while  the 
latter  talked. 

"It 's  too  bad  about  Les,"  she  said  when  Joseph 
ine  finished.  "Certainly  I  '11  tell  Betty  you  were 
hyeh  all  night.  There  '11  be  no  harm  done.  Les 
is  an  odd  boy,"  she  went  on.  "He  don't  seem  to 


198  WEST! 

have  any  will-power  whatever.  He 's  always  in 
trouble.  I  reckon  some  folks  are  born  that  way, 
though;  which  is  no  reason  why  the  rest  of  us  nor 
mal  folks  should  be  hard  on  them."  She  smiled 
at  Josephine.  "Just  go  to  the  door  and  call  Ben, 
won't  you,  my  dear?" 

The  young  giant  came  in  silently  in  response  to 
Josephine's  call;  and  at  his  mother's  injunction  to  be 
careful  to  tell  any  inquirers  that  Josephine  had 
stayed  all  night  at  the  cabin  he  gravely  said : 

"I  reckon  I  '11  be  gettin'  the  trappin's  off  her 
hawss,  then." 

Evidently  he  did  not  intend  to  ask  any  questions, 
for  he  turned  to  go. 

Mrs.  Whitman's  voice  halted  him. 

"Les  is  in  trouble  again." 

"What 's  he  been  doin'  now?" 

"Miss  Hamilton  found  him  in  the  Triangle 
stable  badly  wounded.  It  was  late  last  night.  She 
took  him  over  to  Lattimer's !" 

"Lattimer's?"  The  giant's  eyes  glowed  with  a 
deep  fire.  Under  his  intense  gaze  Josephine  felt 
uncomfortable;  it  was  as  though  he  was  trying  to 
read  her  thoughts  and  was  expecting  to  find  them 
shameful.  When  she  looked  straight  at  him,  the 
fire  went  out  of  his  eyes ;  his  gaze  became  quizzical, 
kindly. 

"Why  did  you  take  him  to  Lattimer's,  ma'am?" 


WEST !  199 

"He  asked  to  go  there.  Why  do  you  ask?  Is 
there  any  reason  why  he  should  n't  have  gone 
there?" 

She  caught  the  swift  glance  that  passed  between 
Ben  and  his  mother,  but  she  could  attach  no  signi 
ficance  to  it  because  Ben's  eyes  had  no  expression, 
and  Mrs.  Whitman's  gaze  was  steady  with  seeming 
indifference. 

With  Ben  giving  his  silent  attention, 
Mrs.  WThitman  related  the  story  told  by  Josephine. 

"I  reckon  you're  right,"  said  Ben;  "Brannon 
would  swing  him  quicker  than  a  wink  if  he  knew 
he  was  at  Lattimer's.  Brannon  ain't  to  be  mon 
keyed  -with!"  His  gaze  was  level.  "You  say  you 
saw  Brannon  shoot  Callahan?" 

"Yes."  The  blood  mounted  to  her  face.  She 
didn't  want  to  lie  in  Mrs.  Whitman's  presence;  but 
she  must  not  let  them  know  that  Brannon  had 
deliberately  murdered  Callahan,  for  since  Lattimer 
had  told  her  there  had  been  "bad  blood"  between 
Brannon  and  Callahan  a  motive  for  the  killing  had 
been  established  in  her  mind,  and  she  was  fearful 
that  if  she  did  n't  stick  to  her  story  the  Star  man 
would  exact  vengeance  from  Brannon.  And  then 
there  was  Lattimer's  warning,  to  the  effect  that  she 
must  not  let  anybody  "wheedle"  the  truth  out  of 
her. 

"Callahan  attacked  you?"  asked  Ben. 


200  WEST ! 

"I  told  you  he  did,  Ben,"  mildly  replied  Mrs. 
Whitman,  speaking  for  Josephine. 

Ben  scratched  his  head.  His  eyes  were 
perplexed,  troubled.  "I  can't  get  that  through  my 
haid,  seems  like,"  he  said,  looking  at  Josephine; 
"though  of  course  if  you  say  so  it  must  be  true." 
He  turned  to  the  door.  "I  '11  be  puttin'  your  hawss 
away,"  he  finished,  as  he  went  out. 

"Brannon's  hard,"  said  Josephine,  ending  a  si 
lence  that  followed  Ben's  exit. 

"He  can't  be  driven,  my  dear,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean,"  said  Mrs.  Whitman  gently.  "Several  men 
have  tried  it.  Men  like  Brannon  are  a  wonderful 
help  in  a  lawless  country  like  this.  Even  the  out 
laws  are  careful  not  to  antagonize  him.  They  all 
know  him  as  a  man  who  cannot  be  intimidated. 
They  know  that  when  he  gives  his  word  he  will  keep 
it,  and  that  he  never  gives  an  inch  after  he  makes 
up  his  mind.  But  there  's  a  sweet,  gentle  side  to 
him;  and  he  is  just  and  very  honorable." 

Mrs.  Whitman's  bright,  kindly  eyes  seemed  to 
search  the  inner  recesses  of  Josephine's  mind;  she 
felt  as  though  a  powerful  light  was  being  turned 
upon  it.  Whereat  she  blushed. 

"You  don't  like  Brannon,  my  dear?" 

"No,"  said  Josephine,  shortly.  "That  is,  I — I 
believe  I  respect  him,  of  course.  But  he  is  ar 
rogant,  domineering," 

Mrs.  Whitman's  smile  was  inscrutable.     She  did 


WEST!  201 

not  answer.  She  seemed  to  be  listening  for  out 
side  sounds  while  watching  Josephine. 

"Some  one  is  coming,"  she  said,  presently.  "It 
will  be  somebody  from  the  Triangle  L,  my  dear, 
searching  for  you. 

It  was  Betty.  She  came  in,  her  face  rather  pale, 
her  hair  wind-blown,  her  eyes  and  her  rapid  breath 
ing  betraying  the  excitemen-t  she  had  been  laboring 
under.  When  she  saw  Josephine,  who  was  facing 
the  door  through  which  she  had  entered,  she  gasped, 
placing  her  hands  over  her  bosom  and  leaned  weakly 
against  the  door-jamb. 

"Merciful  heaven,  Jo;  but  you  did  give  me  a 
scare!"  she  cried.  "What  on  earth  made  you  do 
it?" 

Josephine  had  got  to  her  feet.  She  had  a  feeling 
that  Betty's  present  concern  was  rather  hypocritical 
in  view  of  her  cold  constraint  of  the  preceding 
night.  And  Josephine's  resentment,  carefully  treas 
ured  during  the  ride  from  Lattimer's  to  the  Whit 
man  cabin,  was  visible  in  the  steady,  slightly  defiant 
smile  she  gave  Betty. 

"I  just  wanted  to  ride,  I  suppose.  Besides 
Chong  had  n't  returned,  and  I  wanted  to  know  how 
Mrs.  Whitman  was  getting  along." 

Betty  tried  hard  to  smile  at  Josephine's  belligerent 
tone,  remembering  the  courtesy  due  her  guest. 
But  Betty  could  not  play  the  hypocrite,  and  the 
smile  was  a  failure. 


202  WEST ! 

She  felt  it  was  a  failure.  And  she  knew  she  was 
entitled  to  fair  treatment,  even  if  Jo  was  her  guest. 
In  an  attempt  to  suppress  the  indignation  she  felt, 
she  smiled  brightly  at  Mrs.  Whitman  and  expressed 
sympathy  for  her  illness. 

Then  she  turned  to  Josephine.  This  time  her 
smile  was  gentle,  inviting  peace. 

"You  might  have  told  me  you  were  going,  Jo," 
she  said.  "I  should  n't  have  worried.  Perhaps  I 
should  have  come  with  you.  You  were  here  all 
night?" 

Involuntarily  she  glanced  at  Mrs.  Whitman  as 
though  seeking  confirmation  of  Josephine's  rather 
vicious  affirmative  nod.  Josephine's  cheeks  paled 
with  anger,  for  she  saw  in  Betty's  glance  at  Mrs. 
Whitman  a  suspicion  that  she  was  not  telling  the 
truth. 

"Betty,  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  was  roaming 
about  the  country  all  night !" 

"Why,  Jo !" 

Betty's  cheeks  grew  crimson.  Jo's  determination 
to  quarrel  was  unmistakable,  though  the  provocation 
was  not  visible.  Betty  had  known  Jo  possessed  a 
temper,  but  that  she  should  suddenly  become  vindic 
tive  for  apparently  no  reason  at  all  indicated  there 
was  a  side  of  her  character  which  had  been  kept 
secret. 

"Why,  Jo!"  she  said;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  think  you  know  what  I  mean,  Betty  Lawson," 


WEST !  203 

said  Josephine,  coldly;  her  resentment  having 
resolved  itself  into  a  determination  to  let  Betty  know 
that  she  had  noted  her  constraint  of  the  preceding 
night. 

"You  know  exactly  what  I  mean,"  she  went  on 
spitefully.  "Do  you  think  I  did  not  notice  the  look 
you  gave  me  when  I  told  you  about  Brannon  and 
myself  having  been  at  the  ranch-house  all  night — 
while  Chong  and  Denver  were  away?  Oh,  don't 
pretend,  Betty!''  she  scoffed  at  Betty's  gasp  of 
astonishment.  "You  are  jealous  of  any  one  who 
speaks  to  Brannon !  You  hardly  looked  at  me  last 
night,  after  I  told  you  what  had  happened;  you 
were  n't  even  civil  to  me,  your  guest." 

"Jo!"  expostulated  Betty  vehemently,  her  face 
aflame. 

"I  shall  not  go  back  to  the  ranch-house  of 
course,"  declared  Josephine,  her  voice  coldly  scorn 
ful.  "I  could  never  think  of  forcing  myself  upon 
people  who  do  not  want  me — who  are  afraid  I  am 
going  to—" 

"Why,  Jo—" 

"I  assure  you  I  do  not  want  Brannon,"  said 
Josephine,  smiling  vindictively  at  Betty's  obvious 
confusion — a  confusion,  Josephine  thought,  brought 
on  by  the  knowledge  that  her  secret  was  known  to 
the  other.  "Brannon  is  n't  the  kind  of  man  I  'd 
care  to  spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  with. 

"But  I  saved  him  from  Cole  Meeder — saved  him 


204  WEST ! 

for  you.  For  I  lied  to  Meeder;  I  lied  to  you;  I 
lied  to  Mrs.  Whitman.  You  knew  I  lied  to  you, 
Betty ;  for  you  took  the  trouble  to  show  me  you  did. 
If  I  had  n't  lied,  Cole  Meeder  and  his  men  would 
have  hanged  Brannon !  For  Callahan  did  n't  attack 
me !  I  was  in  the  house  when  I  heard  the  shot ;  and 
when  I  opened  the  door  Callahan  was  lying  dead  on 
the  veranda.  And  Brannon  was  standing  close  to 
him,  a  pistol  in  his  hand !" 

For  an  instant,  as  Betty  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  Josephine  regretted  the  tempestuous  confes 
sion.  But  a  perverse  impulse  seemed  to  have  seized 
her,  and  she  met  Betty's  agonized  look  with  one  of 
cold  indifference. 

As  Betty  flung  out  of  the  door,  Josephine  took 
one  step  after  her ;  then  she  stood  rigid,  pale,  and 
defiant,  listening  to  drumming  hoof-beats  that 
rapidly  receded. 

It  was  out,  now;  and  no  one  had  "wheedled"  it 
out  of  her.  She  had  yielded  to  the  passionate 
resentment  which  had  been  growing  upon  her  all 
morning  through  the  continued  contemplation  of  the 
fancied  ill-treatment  accorded  her  by  Betty;  but  she 
was  certain  she  would  have  said  nothing  had  she 
not  been  half  crazed  by  the  nervous  strain  brought 
on  by  the  incident  of  the  finding  of  Artwell  and 
the  long  night  ride  into  the  ghostly  silence  of  the 
big  basin. 

She  never  had  acted  that  way  before;  she  never 


WEST!  205 

before  had  experienced  the  violent  passions  that  had 
seethed  through  her  all  morning.  It  seemed  she  had 
changed  overnight ;  she  felt  that  the  veneer  of 
civilization  had  been  stripped  from  her,  revealing 
her  as  a  creature  of  primitive  impulses,  of  atavic 
urges.  For  an  instant  as  she  stood  looking  at  the 
closed  door,  she  was  in  danger  of  succumbing  to 
hysteria;  but  she  heard  Mrs.  Whitman's  voice,  calm, 
gentle,  soothing: 

"Come  here,  my  dear." 

And  then  she  was  on  her  knees  in  front  of  the 
invalid,  her  head  in  the  other's  lap.  Mrs.  Whit 
man's  hands,  light,  consoling,  were  smoothing  her 
hair;  and  the  woman's  voice  was  coming,  calmly 
as  before: 

"There,  there,  my  dear.  I  understand — I  under 
stand.  It  must  have  been  a  terrible  trial  to  you, 
and  I  don't  wonder  that  you  lost  your  self-control. 
This  is  a  grim,  cruel  country,  my  dear — to  those 
who  have  ideals  and  the  courage  to  fight  for  them." 


CHAPTER  XX 

T  N  Lattimer's  code  of  ethics  it  was  no  crime  to 
•••  take  what  one  wanted.  And  because  he  was  a 
supreme  egotist  he  acknowledged  no  moral  law 
except  that  which  governed  his  own  desires.  The 
God  men  talked  of  he  had  not  seen;  and  he  would 
have  none  of  the  doctrine  that  prohibits  the  taking 
of  life,  even  if  that  life  belonged  to  a  friend.  He 
was  what  Betty  Lawson  had  termed  him :  "a.  ruth 
less,  smiling  devil." 

He  acknowledged  a  wholesome  respect  for 
Brannon ;  yet  had  not  that  respect  been  tinged  with 
fear  he  would  have  found  some  excuse  to  quarrel 
with  the  man  when  the  latter  had  visited  him  on 
the  morning  Josephine  Hamilton  had  brought  Les 
Artwell  to  his  house. 

Had  Lattimer  been  a  mere  murderer  he  would 
have  permitted  Denver  to  use  the  rifle  he  had  picked 
up  when  Brannon  had  halted  his  horse  at  the  edge 
of  the  Lazy  L  veranda  that  morning.  But  murder, 
such  as  stabbing  a  man  in  the  back  or  shooting  him 
without  warning,  never  had  been  Lattimer  s  method. 
If  he  sought  a  man's  life  he  gave  him  what  must 
seem  to  the  other  an  even  chance,  though  in  reality 
the  victim  would  have  no  chance  at  all. 

206 


WEST !  207 

In  the  case  of  Brannon,  a  satanic  impulse  to  play 
with  the  man  had  been  the  influence  which 
had  impelled  him  to  warn  Denver  not  to  use  the 
rifle. 

The  incident  of  the  killing  of  Callahan  had 
provided  Lattimer  with  an  opportunity  to  dispose  of 
Brannon  without  bringing  upon  himself  or  his  men 
the  burden  of  blame;  and  the  discovery  that 
Josephine  had  lied  to  save  Brannon  would  simplify 
his  plans. 

He  wanted  Josephine;  he  meant  to  have  her. 
From  the  day  he  had  heard  from  Denver  how  the 
girl  had  frustrated  Brannon's  plan  to  hang  Les 
Artwell,  he  had  admired  her  spirit.  When  he  had 
carried  her  from  the  spot  where  she  had  fainted 
after  bringing  Les  Artwell  almost  to  the  door  of  his 
house,  the  passion  she  had  aroused  in  him  had  been 
deeper  and  more  violent  than  he  had  felt  for  any 
woman.  While  talking  with  her  on  the  veranda 
he  had  sternly  repressed  his  passions,  lest  she  feel 
them  and  become  frightened.  But  his  determina 
tion  to  have  her  was  as  deep  as  ever. 

After  Brannon  rode  away,  Lattimer  picked  up 
Josephine's  handkerchief,  brushed  the  dirt  from  it, 
smoothed  it  out  on  his  knee,  and  gazed  speculatively 
at  it. 

He  decided  Brannon  had  not  seen  it,  and  yet  a 
doubt  assailed  him.  Brannon  was  a  man  who  kept 
his  emotions  to  himself;  he  was  crafty,  subtle, 


208  WEST! 

keen-witted,  and  his  veiled  warning  upon  leaving 
indicated  that  he  considered  his  suspicions  well 
founded.  Did  Brannon  know  that  Josephine  had 
visited  the  Lazy  L?  Had  he  been  referring  to  the 
girl  when  he  had  asked  if  Lattimer  had  seen  "a 
rider  with  two  saddles  pass  this  way?" 

If  Brannon  did  know  the  girl  had  visited  the 
Lazy  L,  his  knowledge  would  make  the  game  more 
interesting  for  Lattimer;  it  would  make  Lattimer's 
ultimate  triumph  more  complete,  for  he  would 
have  the  satisfaction  of  beating  Brannon  in  spite 
of  the  latter's  knowledge. 

There  was  no  occasion  for  haste  in  the  prose 
cution  of  his  plan  to  dispose  of  Brannon.  Know 
ing,  through  Les  Artwell's  story  and  through  his 
questioning  of  Josephine,  that  Brannon  did  not  kill 
Callahan,  Lattimer  was  aware  that  Brannon  felt 
he  was  doing  the  girl  a  service  in  taking  the  blame 
for  the  shooting.  And  of  course  he  would  not  as 
sume  responsibility  for  the  deed  if  he  knew  that  Les 
Artwell  had  been  near  the  Triangle  L  that  night. 
Being  ignorant  of  Artwell's  part  in  the  affair,  and 
desiring  to  shield  Josephine,  Brannon  would  take 
no  offensive  action — conceding  he  knew  of  Jose 
phine's  visit  to  the  Lazy  L — until  he  was  certain 
the  girl  would  not  be  involved. 

There  were  faults  in  Lattimer's  reasoning,  and 
he  was  aware  of  some  of  them;  yet  the  outstand 
ing  fact  was  that  Brannon  had  merely  warned  him 


WEST !  209 

when  if  he  had  positive  evidence,  or  even  a  strong 
suspicion,  he  would  have  acted  instantly. 

At  noon  of  the  day  following  Brannon's  visit, 
Lattimer  rode  up  to  the  gate  of  the  Whitman  horse 
corral  and  dismounted.  He  looked  around  for  Ben, 
but  the  latter  was  not  visible,  and  Lattimer  walked 
to  the  house,  entering  after  his  heavy  knocking 
at  the  door  brought  a  hospitable  "Come  in!"  from 
Mrs.  Whitman. 

The  invalid's  welcoming  smile  was  faint.  In  the 
bright  eyes  was  a  hint  of  perturbation,  of  anxiety. 

"Sit  down,  John,"  she  said.  And  then,  before 
Lattimer  could  settle  firmly  into  the  chair,  she  asked 
eagerly,  anxiously: 

"John,  have  you  had  a  doctor  for  Les?" 

"He  is  n't  hurt  much,  Mother  Whitman,"  con 
soled  Lattimer.  "Not  bad  enough  to  have  a  doctor. 
He  's  just  weak ;  he  's  lost  a  lot  of  blood." 

"Oh,  my!"  she  sighed,  "Why  can't  Les  be  dif 
ferent?  Why  don't  you  talk  to  him,  John?" 

Lattimer  flushed  under  the  deep  appeal  of  her 
voice. 

"I  've  talked,  Mother  Whitman.  It  does  n't  seem 
to  do  any  good.  Les  is  headstrong." 

Mrs.  Whitman  folded  her  hands  resignedly.  "I 
wonder  which  of  my  two  afflictions  will  take  me," 
she  smiled;  "Les,  or  this?"  she  turned  the  palms  of 
her  emaciated  hands  upward,  with  a  gesture  of 
mute  hoplessness. 


210  WEST! 

"I  don't  remember  having  sinned  enough  to  de 
serve  either  affliction,"  she  said.  "Though  I  pre 
sume  God  knows  why  I  am  selected.  My  first 
husband  was  just  like  Les."  She  blushed.  "But 
of  course  you  know  that;  your  father  must  have 
told  you  about  him;  your  father  knew  him  before 
I  married  him. 

"Les  always  was  headstrong,"  she  went  on.  "He 
would  n't  mind.  He  got  worse  after  his  father 
died  and  I  married  Mr.  Whitman.  And  he  always 
seemed  to  resent  Ben.  I  Ve  thought  I  made  a  mis 
take  in  marrying  again ;  but  Ben  never  crossed  Les ; 
he  always  let  Les  have  his  own  way  and  was 
very  kind  to  him.  But  Les  always  was  vindictive; 
and  he  left  home  before  we  came  here." 

"And  never  hinted  to  anybody  about  you 
being  his  mother,"  said  Lattimer.  "He's  a  strange 
boy." 

"That  was  because  he  resents  Ben,"  said  Mrs. 
Whitman.  "I  believe  I  would  have  been  more  satis 
fied  if  he  had  n't  come  here  at  all,"  she  went  on, 
"for  then  I  would  n't  know  of  the  things  he  has 
done.  "John,"  she  added  in  a  low,  apprehensive 
voice,  "did  Les  kill  Tim  Callahan?" 

"I  'm  afraid  he  did,  Mother,"  reluctantly  an 
swered  Lattimer. 

Mrs.  Whitman  drew  her  breath  sharply,  but  the 
only  evidence  of  emotion  that  was  visible  to  Latti 
mer  was  in  her  birdlike  eyes,  which  were  shining 


WEST!  2ii 

through  a  mist  of  tears  that  the  man  knew  would 
not  be  shed. 

"How  do  you  know,  John?" 

"He  told  me." 

Mrs.  Whitman  shuddered.  She  leaned  forward, 
whispering,  the  material  instinct  to  provide  protec 
tion  for  her  offspring  seeking  a  way  to  save  him 
from  the  punishment  that  would  inevitably  follow 
if  his  guilt  became  known. 

"John,"  she  said,  "does  Brannon  know?" 

Lattimer  shook  his  head  negatively,  though  not 
with  conviction. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  persisted.  "You  can't  tell 
about  Brannon ;  he  is  so  silent,  so  deep,  so  clever  at 
anticipating  the  actions  of  others." 

"I  reckon  Brannon  don't  know,"  said  Lattimer. 
"I  'm  intending  to  keep  him  from  knowing  until 
I  get  Les  well  and  get  him  out  of  the  country.  I 
rode  over  to  tell  you  about  Les,  thinking  that  Hamil 
ton  girl  would  n't  get  it  straight.  I  want  to  get 
word  to  her  some  way  that  you  want  her  to  come 
and  nurse  Les.  I  'd  go  myself,  but  I  'm  afraid 
Betty  Lawson  would  suspect  something.  Have 
Ben  ride  over  to  the  Triangle  L  and  tell  the  Hamil 
ton  girl  you  want  her  for  company  for  a  few  days. 
Then  she  can  sneak  over  to  my  place  and  take 
care  of  Les." 

"Miss  Hamilton  is  staying  here  now,  John,"  said 
Mrs.  Whitman.  "She  and  Betty  quarreled."  Her 


212  WEST! 

keen  eyes,  were  fixed  steadily  upon  Lattimer's,  and 
she  saw  the  deep  exultant  gleam-  that  came  into  them. 

But  Lattimer's  voice  was  low,  even.  "What  did 
they  quarrel  about?" 

"Miss  Hamilton  was  not  quite  herself.  She  felt 
offended  because  she  thought  Betty  doubted  the 
story  she  told  about  shooting  Callahan.  She  ad 
mitted  she  had  lied;  she  said  Brannon  killed  Calla 
han  without  her  knowledge." 

Lattimer  frowned;  then  he  smiled.  If  Betty  told 
Brannon  about  Josephine's  charge,  Brannon  would 
hear  no  more  than  he  already  knew.  But  if  the 
story  got  to  Cole  Meeder's  ears  before  Lattimer 
was  ready,  Lattimer  could  not  be  sure  that  Jose 
phine  would  not  deny  the  confession  in  order  to 
keep  Meeder  from  hanging  Brannon. 

"Miss  Hamilton  does  n't  know  who  killed  Calla 
han,"  said  Mrs.  Whitman.  "I  knew,  the  instant 
I  heard  about  it,  that  she  did  n't  do  it.  I  think  she 
sincerely  believes  Brannon  did  it.  But  I — I  knew, 
John.  Just  as  soon  as  Miss  Hamilton  told  me 
about  finding  Les  in  the  Triangle  L  stable,  I  knew 
Les  was  the — the  murderer.  But  I  could  n't  let 
Betty  know." 

"Let  Miss  Hamilton  go  on  thinking  Brannon 
did  it,"  said  Lattimer.  "If  she  finds  out  Les 
did  it  she'll  blurt  it  out  some  day;  she's  that 
kind." 

Lattimer  got  up.     He  succeeded  in  making  the 


WEST!  213 

gravity  of  his  expression  impressive,  so  that  Mrs. 
Whitman,  watching  him,  drew  her  breath  tremu 
lously. 

"What  is  it,  John?" 

"I  reckon  I  '11  have  to  get  back  to  the  ranch. 
Les  is  alone.  He  '11  need  care,  if  he 's  to  pull 
through.  Where's  Ben?" 

"He  went  down  the  river.  To  Boskin's  ford. 
He  's  thinking  of  driving  some  cattle  over  to-mor 
row." 

"Where  is  Miss  Hamilton?" 

"She  went  with  Ben,  John."  Noting  the  quick 
fire  that  smoldered  in  Lattimer's  eyes,  she  added : 
"She  did  n't  want  to  leave  me,  but  she  looked  so 
pale  and  tired  this  morning  that  I  thought  the 
ride  would  do  her  good." 

"Just  as  well  she  ain't  here,  maybe,"  said  Lattimer, 
"It  would  n't  look  right  for  me  to  ask  her ;  but 
Les  has  sure  got  to  have  a  woman's  care.  We 
can't  get  Betty  Lawson;  there's  no  other  woman 
in  the  basin,  except  you.  And  you  can't  go.  The 
women  in  Willets  won't  do.  I  reckon  it 's  got  to 
be  Miss  Hamilton. 

"Maybe  she  won't  want  to  come.  It  '11  be  your 
job  to  make  her  see  that  she  ought  to  come.  She 
pities  Les — thinks  he  is  being  persecuted.  Make 
her  come,  even  if  you  have  to  tell  her  the  truth — 
that  Les  is  your  son.  That  '11  bring  her,"  he  added, 
smiling  grimly.  "If  it  does  n't,  you  might  remind 


2i4  WEST! 

her  that  you  lied  to  Betty  about  where  she  spent 
the  biggest  part  of  a  night!" 

"Lattimer!" 

The  passionate  reproach  in  Mrs.  Whitman's  voice 
and  eyes  brought  a  deep  color  to  the  man's  cheeks. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  soothingly;  "I  just 
wanted  to  impress  upon  you  how  badly  Les  needs 
her." 

He  halted  in  the  doorway  and  looked  back  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  thought  of  something  more. 

"Have  Miss  Hamilton  come  over  to-night,"  he 
said;  "I  '11  be  waiting  for  her." 


CHAPTER     XXI 

JOSEPHINE  HAMILTON  was  able  to  look  back 
upon  her  week's  stay  at  the  Lattimer  ranch  with 
a  rather  amused  complacency. 

In  the  first  place,  the  startling  unconventionality 
of  her  action  in  coming  had  not  seemed  so  much 
of  a  violation  of  the  proprieties  after  all,  because  a 
life  had  been  in  jeopardy.  Besides,  her  presence  at 
the  Lattimer  ranch  was  known  only  to  those  most 
interested,  and  would  never  be  known  to  the  out 
side  world.  Even  Betty  would  be  kept  in  ignorance. 

But  Mrs.  Whitman  had  been  compelled  to  use 
her  final  argument  in  an  effort  to  induce  Josephine 
to  come,  that  of  confessing  to  the  girl  that  Les 
Artwell  was  her  son.  Incidentally  the  confession 
had  explained  to  Josephine  the  reason  for  Lattimer's 
positive  assurance  that  Mrs.  Whitman  would  lie  for 
Les  Artwell. 

Artwell  was  getting  better.  His  improvement  had 
not  been  rapid,  but  he  was  growing  undeniably 
stronger,  and  his  cheeks  were  revealing  signs  of 
restored  circulation.  And  Josephine's  sympathies 
were  more  firmly  established  than  ever. 

Lattimer  had  ridden  away  a  short  time  before; 
215 


2i6  WEST! 

and  Josephine  was  sitting  in  a  rocker  on  the  ve 
randa,  thinking  of  him. 

The  night  was  much  like  another  that  she  would 
always  remember — the  night  Tim  Callahan  had  been 
shot  to  death.  A  big  moon,  minus  a  quarter,  was 
streaming  its  mellow  flood  into  the  big  basin,  dis 
closing  the  farther  reaches  of  the  slumberous  green 
bowl,  touching  hilltops  with  a  luminous  splendor, 
filling  the  valleys  and  draws  with  mystery. 

Lattimer  had  treated  her  fairly  and  honorably. 
He  had  not  forced  himself  upon  her;  he  had  per 
mitted  her  as  much  privacy  as  she  desired. 

To  be  sure,  she  had  noticed  that  at  times  he 
seemed  to  be  watching  her  speculatively,  with  an 
expression  that  could  not  be  mistaken.  But  she 
was  not  a  prude,  and  she  realized  that  Lattimer's 
admiring  glances  were  not  more  offensive  than  those 
she  had  received  from  other  men  in  an  environment 
which  was  supposed  to  produce  gentlemen. 

Also,  being  a  woman,  Josephine  was  not  averse 
to  being  admired.  She  had  a  subconscious  impres 
sion  that  it  was  nature's  scheme  to  make  women  so 
that  they  would  be  admired  of  men,  and  she  would 
have  been  disappointed  to  find  that  her  charms  were 
negligible. 

Lattimer's  evident  ability  sternly  to  repress  his 
passions  gave  her  confidence  in  him.  Passion  for 
her  was  in  his  heart,  she  knew;  and  though  the 
knowledge  was  strangely  satisfying  to  her,  she  was 


WEST!  217 

afraid  of  it  because  it  was  a  new  emotion  to  her, 
and  she  did  n't  know  enough  of  the  passions  of  men 
to  be  able  to  determine  just  how  far  she  could  per 
mit  them  to  go  and  still  be  able  gracefully  to 
retreat. 

Her  impulses  were  not  those  of  the  coquette. 
Had  she  been  inclined  to  flirt  with  Lattimer  her 
course  would  have  been  simple.  She  was  serious ; 
she  earnestly  tried  to  analyze  her  feelings  toward 
the  man;  and  she  did  not  intend  to  permit  herself 
to  surrender  her  independence  in  the  slightest  degree 
until  she  was  convinced  of  Lattimer's  entire  worthi 
ness  and  of  her  own  intentions. 

But  she  knew  that  during  the  week  the  man's  in 
tense  magnetism  had  gripped  her,  had  made  a  power 
ful  appeal  to  her  imagination.  Several  times  while 
going  about  her  tasks  she  had  caught  herself  men 
tally  dramatizing  the  moment  of  her  surrender  to 
him;  and  during  his  absence  from  the  ranch-house 
she  could  always  see  him.  At  such  times,  realiz 
ing  that  the  moment  of  surrender  might  come,  she 
was  afraid  of  herself. 

She  thought  she  knew  why  Lattimer  intrigued 
her  interest.  It  was  because  he  was  different  from 
the  men  she  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  in  the 
East.  It  was  because,  having  passed  her  days  in 
the  society  of  people  of  refinement,  she  craved  a 
change.  She  felt  that  she  must  always  have  had 
a  subconscious  admiration  for  the  primitive;  that 


218  WEST! 

the  repression  that  had  governed  the  actions  of  all 
the  people  of  her  acquaintance  merely  masked  their 
natural  impulses  toward  reversion  to  type. 

Eastern  men  were  undoubtedly  just  as  manly  as 
the  Western  males  she  had  met.  The  difference 
was  that  the  Western  male,  not  having  had  some  of 
the  advantages  of  civilization,  was  more  direct  of 
speech,  more  natural  than  his  Eastern  brother. 

She  was  beginning  to  feel  that  at  heart  she  was 
Western.  In  the  life  she  had  known  something 
had  been  lacking.  She  had  always  felt  an  urge  to 
be  an  individual  quite  apart  from  others ;  she  had 
wanted  to  do  things  in  an  original  way,  to  follow  her 
own  impulses,  to  be  a  force  in  life.  She  was  half 
convinced  her  action  in  arbitrarily  insisting  that 
Brannon  yield  to  her  wishes  in  their  several  clashes 
was  a  manifestation  of  dormant  capacity  to  rule. 

She  believed  that  was  why  she  liked  Lattimer. 
He  typified  her  conception  of  the  ideal  man — big, 
handsome,  vital,  electric,  vibrant  with  power  and 
force,  elemental  in  thought  and  action,  dominant  and 
individualistic. 

At  first  she  had  thought  Brannon  was  the  ideal 
man.  She  saw  her  mistake  now.  And  that  was 
why  her  subconscious  mind  had  fought  against 
yielding  to  the  lure  of  him.  Brannon  was  n't  the 
man.  He  was  too  self-confident,  too  inflexible,  too 
irritatingly  conscious  of  his  ability  to  rule. 

She  believed  she  felt  a  vindictive  delight  in  op- 


WEST!  219 

posing  him;  certainly  in  her  heart  at  this  instant 
was  a  grim  satisfaction  over  the  knowledge  that, 
until  now,  at  least,  she  had  kept  him  from  hanging 
Les  Artwell. 

She  was  no  longer  mystified  over  her  action  in 
defying  Betty  Lawson.  She  felt  that  the  sudden 
accession  of  passion  which  had  driven  her  to  the 
break  with  her  friend  had  been  merely  an  involun 
tary  demonstration  of  a  new  independence  of 
thought.  She  had  discovered  the  primitive  in  her 
character,  the  elemental  instinct  to  fight  to  defend 
herself  from  aggression.  The  old  inclination  to 
depend  upon  custom  and  convention  had  gone : 
it  had  been  succeeded  by  a  consciousness  of  power, 
by  a  satisfying  confidence  in  her  ability  to  achieve 
her  own  destiny.  She  was  an  integral  part  of  the 
country  she  thought  she  had  feared,  but  which  she 
really  loved ;  she  was  Western,  in  mind  and  heart. 


222  WEST ! 

"It 's  perfect,"  she  returned. 

"How  is  Les?" 

"He  is  much  better." 

She  had  been  wondering  why  he  did  not  put  the 
horse  away.  She  now  looked  sharply  at  him,  and 
for  the  first  time  became  aware  that  he  was  changed 
from  the  Lattimer  she  had  grown  to  know. 

He  was  watching  her  closely,  and  she  saw  that  his 
eyes  were  intent,  cold,  and  a-gleam  with  a  specula 
tion  that  somehow  impressed  her  as  being  sinister. 
His  lips  were  in  straight,  hard  lines,  with  the  merest 
suggestion  of  a  wanton,  whimsical  smile  in  the 
corners. 

She  caught  her  breath  sharply,  her  thoughts  leap 
ing  instantly  to  Brannon  and  Artwell.  Evidently 
Lattimer  divined  her  thoughts,  for  he  stepped  for 
ward,  placed  both  his  hands  on  her  shoulders ;  and  as 
she  got  to  her  feet  in  response  to  the  dread  fear  that 
tugged  at  her,  he  leaned  forward  and  looked  into 
her  eyes,  searchingly,  speculatively. 

"How  brave  are  you?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

She  found  no  words  with  which  to  answer.  The 
intensity  of  his  gaze,  the  surprising  suddenness  of 
the  question,  brought  on  mental  incoherence. 

"Brave  enough  to  play  the  string  out?"  he  asked. 
"I  reckon  you  know  what  has  happened,"  he  said, 
laughing  softly  with  mirth.  "Brannon  is  suspicious. 
I  've  got  a  man  in  the  Star  outfit  and  one  with  the 
Triangle  L.  There  's  a  lot  of  mysterious  talk  go- 


WEST!  223 

ing  around.  We  've  got  to  get  Artwell  away  from 
here  before  Brannon's  suspicions  become  too 
strong."  She  felt  his  fingers  tighten  on  her 
shoulders.  "Are  you  brave  enough  to  go  with 
Artwell  and  me  to  a  place  where  Artwell  will  be 
safe?" 

She  nodded  affirmatively  without  any  definite  idea 
of  what  would  be  required  of  her.  She  understood 
that  Artwell  was  in  danger,  and  in  this  crisis  she 
was  conscious  only  of  a  savagely  intense  desire — a 
determination — to  save  him. 

She  felt  the  muscles  of  Lattimer's  arm  stiffen; 
he  drew  a  deep  breath;  his  eyes  gleamed  brightly  in 
the  clear  moonlight. 

"Good !"  he  said,  his  voice  carrying  an  exultant 
note:  "I'll  get  things  ready." 

He  gripped  her  shoulders  tightly,  though  she 
somehow  got  the  impression  that  the  grip  was  meant 
as  a  caress.  Vaguely  disturbed,  suddenly  disquieted 
by  his  evident  haste,  she  asked  haltingly  as  he 
dropped  his  hands  from  her  shoulders : 

"Do — do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  now — 
right  away?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  get  horses  ready."  He  was 
about  to  step  down  from  the  veranda  but  at  her 
question  he  halted  and  looked  back  at  her. 

"You're  staying  game,  aren't  you?"  he  said, 
grimly  bantering  her. 

"Of  course.     But — where  are  we  going?" 


222  WEST! 

"It 's  perfect,"  she  returned. 

"How  is  Les?" 

"He  is  much  better." 

She  had  been  wondering  why  he  did  not  put  the 
horse  away.  She  now  looked  sharply  at  him,  and 
for  the  first  time  became  aware  that  he  was  changed 
from  the  Lattimer  she  had  grown  to  know. 

He  was  watching  her  closely,  and  she  saw  that  his 
eyes  were  intent,  cold,  and  a-gleam  with  a  specula 
tion  that  somehow  impressed  her  as  being  sinister. 
His  lips  were  in  straight,  hard  lines,  with  the  merest 
suggestion  of  a  wanton,  whimsical  smile  in  the 
corners. 

She  caught  her  breath  sharply,  her  thoughts  leap 
ing  instantly  to  Brannon  and  Artwell.  Evidently 
Lattimer  divined  her  thoughts,  for  he  stepped  for 
ward,  placed  both  his  hands  on  her  shoulders ;  and  as 
she  got  to  her  feet  in  response  to  the  dread  fear  that 
tugged  at  her,  he  leaned  forward  and  looked  into 
her  eyes,  searchingly,  speculatively. 

"How  brave  are  you?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

She  found  no  words  with  which  to  answer.  The 
intensity  of  his  gaze,  the  surprising  suddenness  of 
the  question,  brought  on  mental  incoherence. 

"Brave  enough  to  play  the  string  out?"  he  asked. 
"I  reckon  you  know  what  has  happened,"  he  said, 
laughing  softly  with  mirth.  "Brannon  is  suspicious. 
I  've  got  a  man  in  the  Star  outfit  and  one  with  the 
Triangle  L.  There  's  a  lot  of  mysterious  talk  go- 


WEST !  223 

ing  around.  We  've  got  to  get  Artwell  away  from 
here  before  Brannon's  suspicions  become  too 
strong."  She  felt  his  fingers  tighten  on  her 
shoulders.  "Are  you  brave  enough  to  go  with 
Artwell  and  me  to  a  place  where  Artwell  will  be 
safe?" 

She  nodded  affirmatively  without  any  definite  idea 
of  what  would  be  required  of  her.  She  understood 
that  Artwell  was  in  danger,  and  in  this  crisis  she 
was  conscious  only  of  a  savagely  intense  desire — a 
determination — to  save  him. 

She  felt  the  muscles  of  Lattimer's  arm  stiffen; 
he  drew  a  deep  breath;  his  eyes  gleamed  brightly  in 
the  clear  moonlight. 

"Good !"  he  said,  his  voice  carrying  an  exultant 
note:  "I'll  get  things  ready." 

He  gripped  her  shoulders  tightly,  though  she 
somehow  got  the  impression  that  the  grip  was  meant 
as  a  caress.  Vaguely  disturbed,  suddenly  disquieted 
by  his  evident  haste,  she  asked  haltingly  as  he 
dropped  his  hands  from  her  shoulders : 

"Do — do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  now — 
right  away?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  get  horses  ready."  He  was 
about  to  step  down  from  the  veranda  but  at  her 
question  he  halted  and  looked  back  at  her. 

"You're  staying  game,  aren't  you?"  he  said, 
grimly  bantering  her. 

"Of  course.     But — where  are  we  going?" 


224  WEST ! 

"It  '11  be  Laskar,  I  reckon.  You  're  not  afraid,  are 
you?" 

"No!"  she  declared,  defiantly.  "But  Laskar  is 
far  isn't  it?" 

"Fifty  miles." 

"Do  you  think  Artwell  can  stand  it?" 

"He  '11  have  to.  I  reckon  he  'd  rather  ride  than 
swing.  You  go  in  and  ask  him  while  I  get  the 
horses  ready.  Mine 's  done ;  I  '11  have  to  get  a 
fresh  one." 

"Why,"  she  said,  "do  you  mean  that  Brannon — 
that  some  one — has  been  after  you? 

"Not  as  bad  as  that,"  he  laughed  as  he  stepped  to 
the  ground.  "I  've  just  got  wind  that  Brannon  is 
suspicious,  and  I  'm  getting  Artwell  away  in  time. 
Don't  get  excited.  We  '11  take  our  time  and  be 
in  Laskar  by  sun-up,  all  regular  and  safe.  We  '11 
turn  Artwell  over  to  some  friends  of  his  there,  and 
you  can  go  back  to  Whitman's." 

Reassured  by  his  voice,  which  she  thought  held 
a  note  of  humorous  tolerance  for  her  fears,  she  went 
in  to  Artwell. 

Artwell  was  asleep,  and  when  she  awakened  him 
to  tell  him  what  impended,  he  sat  up,  pale  of  face 
and  visibly  fearful.  For  the  first  time  the  girl  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  man's  real  character;  she  saw  the 
serpent  malignity  of  his  soul  lying  naked  in  his 
eyes,  and  she  shudderingly  turned  away. 

"You  won't  go  back  on  me,  now,  ma'am  ?" 


WEST!  225 

He  had  grasped  one  of  her  hands  and  was  gripping 
it  tightly.  "I  'm  in  pretty  bad  shape,  ma'am.  But 
that  would  n't  make  any  difference  to  Brannon. 
He  'd  swing  me,  anyway.  But  he  won't,  if  you  're 
with  me." 

'"Brannon  won't  hang  you  if  I  can  prevent  it," 
she  told  Artwell. 

When  she  went  out  of  the  room  to  get  her  be 
longings  together,  Artwell  was  getting  up,  mutter 
ing  in  a  hoarse  undertone  something  about  Brannon, 
the  Triangle  L,  Callahan,  and  Cole  Meeder. 

By  the  time  she  had  got  her  things  into  a  slicker 
that  Mrs.  Whitman  had  given  her  when  she  had  rid 
den  to  the  Lazy  L  to  nurse  Artwell  back  to  health — 
various  articles  of  wearing-apparel  that  Ben  Whit 
man  had  brought  over  from  the  Triangle  L  at  her 
request — Artwell  had  got  his  clothes  on  and  was 
standing  in  the  outside  doorway.  He  was  a  pallid, 
sullen  ghost  of  his  former  self,  and  a  look  into  his 
wildly  staring  eyes  sent  a  shiver  over  her.  But 
when  she  saw  him  sway  unsteadily  and  hang  weakly 
to  one  of  the  door-jambs  she  ran  to  him,  remorseful, 
pitying.  He  was  only  a  boy,  after  all;  Mrs.  Whit 
man's  erring  offspring,  misguided,  of  course,  and 
sullenly  defiant  toward  a  world  that  had  persecuted 
him.  No  wonder  he  was  resentful! 

Lattimer  had  the  horses  ready.  She  held  one 
horse  while  Lattimer  lifted  Artwell  into  the  saddle; 
she  was  helped  upon  another  horse  by  Lattimer — 


226 


WEST! 


not  Chesterfield,  for  she  had  sent  him  home  by  Ben 
Whitman — and  when  Lattimer  himself  climbed  on 
his  mount  the  three  rode  around  a  corner  of  the 
ranch-house  and  headed  into  the  moon  haze  south 
ward. 


AFTER  his  talk  with  Lattimer  at  the  Lazy  L 
ranch-house  Brannon  had  headed  the  black 
horse  toward  the  Whitman  cabin.  But  he  did  not 
stop  at  the  cabin.  He  had  intended  to  stop,  but 
when  he  reached  a  timber  clump  that  surrounded  the 
level  near  the  Whitman  buildings,  he  halted  the 
black  and  sat  motionless  in  the  saddle,  to  gaze  saturn- 
inely  at  Chesterfield,  who  was  being  turned  into  the 
horse  corral  by  Ben  Whitman. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  now  concerning  the 
ownership  of  the  woman's  handkerchief  that  Latti 
mer  had  covered  with  his  boot  while  he  had  been 
talking.  Josephine  had  helped  Les  Artwell  to  get 
to  Lattimer's  ranch,  had  dropped  her  handkerchief 
at  the  edge  of  the  veranda  and  had  then  ridden 
to  the  Whitman  cabin. 

That  Ben  Whitman  was  just  caring  for  her  horse 
indicated  that  she  had  only  recently  arrived;  and 
when  Brannon  saw  a  saddle  hanging  on  the  top 
rail  of  the  corral  fence — a  saddle  which  he  recog 
nized  as  belonging  to  the  Triangle  L — he  knew  it 
had  just  been  removed  from  Chesterfield,  for  Ben 
Whitman  was  notoriously  particular,  and  would  not 
neglect  it. 

227 


228  WEST ! 

Brannon  scanned  the  corral  and  the  level  around 
the  cabin  for  sight  of  Betty's  horse.  Betty  had 
not  yet  come,  it  seemed,  though  she  should  have 
reached  the  cabin  long  ago.  But  Betty,  he  re 
flected,  had  been  excited  and  anxious,  and  there  was 
a  possibility  that  she  had  ridden  miles  out  of  her 
way  on  a  chance  that  Josephine  had  strayed  from 
the  dim  trail  leading  from  the  Triangle  L  to  the 
Whitman  cabin.  She  would  be  beset  with  con 
flicting  impulses,  and  would  yield  to  some  of  them. 

A  little  later,  still  sitting  quietly  in  the  saddle, 
Brannon  smiled  in  self-vindication,  for  he  saw  a 
dust-cloud  sweeping  toward  the  Whitman  cabin 
from  the  north,  and  ahead  of  the  cloud  was  Betty. 
She  had  been  far  off  the  trail. 

Brannon  waited.  There  was  now  no  occasion 
for  him  to  make  his  presence  known,  and  he  in 
tended  to  circle  the  cabin  without  letting  himself 
be  seen.  Later  he  would  join  the  outfit. 

He  saw  Betty  ride  up,  dismount,  wave  a  hand 
at  Ben  Whitman  and  enter  the  cabin.  He  observed 
that  Ben  Whitman  made  haste  to  get  Chesterfield's 
saddle  out  of  sight — which  was  a  suspicious  cir 
cumstance  that  caused  Brannon's  brows  to  come  to 
gether  in  a  puzzled  frown. 

Whitman's  stealthy  haste,  together  with  Betty's 
abrupt  exit  from  the  cabin  within  a  very  few  min 
utes  after  her  entrance,  coupled  with  the  fact  that 
Betty  was  crying  when  she  came  out,  were  per- 


WEST !  229 

plexing  incidents  that  caused  Brannon  to  change  his 
mind  about  joining  the  outfit. 

He  saw  Betty  mount  her  horse  and  ride  furiously 
eastward  toward  the  Triangle  L ;  he  saw  Ben  Whit 
man  wag  his  head  with  an  odd,  negative  motion  at 
the  sight.  But  Chesterfield  stayed  in  the  corral. 

Brannon  made  a  wide  circuit  to  avoid  being  seen 
by  Ben  Whitman  as  he  rode  away.  It  took  him 
fully  an  hour  to  reach  the  Triangle  L  trail,  but  once 
on  it  he  made  the  black  horse  travel  fast,  so  that  in 
slightly  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half  altogether 
he  was  dismounting  at  the  Triangle  L  corral  gates. 
Betty's  horse  was  already  in  the  corral,  and  Brannon 
strode  to  the  ranch-house,  to  pound  heavily  on  the 
front  door  that  opened  upon  the  veranda. 

When  Betty  came  toward  him  through  the  sub 
dued  light  of  the  big  room  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  wet  and  her  cheeks  crimson;  but  he  pretended 
not  to  notice  her  agitation.  He  was  also  success 
ful  in  veiling  his  curiosity. 

"I  've  looked  around  considerable,  Betty,"  he  said. 
"If  she  rode  south  she  did  n't  leave  much  evidence." 
He  thought  of  the  handkerchief  he  had  seen  at  Latti- 
mer's.  He  did  not  intend  to  tell  what  he  knew. 

Brannon  saw  that  Betty  was  in  the  grip  of  some 
strong  passion.  It  was  scornful  indignation  or 
bitter  resentment;  he  could  not  tell  which. 

Betty's  voice  was  cold  and  even..  "Miss  Hamil 
ton  is  visiting  Mrs.  Whitman,  Brannon,"  she  said. 


230  WEST ! 

"I  thought  she  would  n't  go  very  far,"  he  re 
turned.  "She  explained  why  she  went  away  with 
out  saying  anything  to  you,  I  reckon?" 

"She  said  she  was  worried  about  Mrs.  Whitman." 

There  was  a  chilling  smile  on  Betty's  lips  and  a 
truculent  set  to  her  chin.  Also,  there  was  suspicion 
in  the  steady  eyes  that  were  probing  Brannon's 
expression,  that  were  studying  him,  trying  to  pene 
trate  the  mask  of  unconcern  with  which  he  was  con 
cealing  his  curiosity. 

"She  rode  back  with  you?"  asked  Brannon. 

"I  believe  she  intends  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Whitman, 
indefinitely,"  said  Betty. 

"Sort  of  a  sudden  decision,  was  n't  it,"  smiled 
Brannon. 

Betty's  lips  became  tightly  set;  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Apparently,"    she   said. 

"She  must  have  got  plenty  tired  of  us,"  suggested 
Brannon. 

"She  was  at  the  Whitman  cabin  all  night,  Bran 
non,"  Betty  flushed.  "That  was  one  thing  we  quar 
reled  about.  Jo  seemed  to  think  I  did  n't  believe 
she  had  stayed  there.  But  I  did  believe  her,  Bran 
non;  I  was  merely  astonished — for  I  thought  if  she 
had  known  she  intended  to  stay  there,  she  might 
have  told  me.  Of  course  I  knew  she  had  been 
somewhere  all  night,  for  her  bed  here  had  not  been 
slept  in.  Oh,  without  a  doubt  she  was  there  all 
night,  Brannon;  Mrs.  Whitman  corroborated  her." 


WEST!  231 

Brannon's  face  was  expressionless,  telling  nothing 
of  his  thoughts,  which  were  concerned  with  his  latest 
evidence  of  a  new  link  in  the  chain  of  mystery  which 
was  enmeshing  Josephine  Hamilton. 

Mrs.  Whitman  had  lied  to  protect  the  girl;  Ben 
Whitman  had  been  attempting  to  conceal  the  visible 
evidence  of  her  late  arrival  at  the  Whitman  cabin; 
and  Lattimer  had  concealed  her  handkerchief  with 
his  boot.  Lattimer  had  also  hidden  the  saddle  that 
had  been  on  Billy  when  Artwell  had  ridden  the  horse 
to  Lattimer's  ranch;  and  Denver's  horse  had  been 
in  Lattimer's  corral. 

Brannon  was  convinced  that  Josephine  had  not 
knowingly  joined  forces  with  Lattimer,  Artwell, 
and  Denver.  He  thought  she  had  merely  co 
operated  with  Lattimer  and  Artwell  in  order  to 
save  Artwell's  life  through  a  mistaken  conception 
of  justice — and  possibly  because  of  a  deliberate 
determination  to  force  her  principles  upon  the 
country.  But  how  was  he  to  interpret  the  attitude 
of  Ben  and  Mrs.  Whitman?  Were  they,  too,  mem 
bers  of  that  organized  band  of  thieves  of 
which — according  to  the  suspicion  that  had  been 
growing  in  his  mind — Satan  Lattimer  was  the 
head? 

Though  he  had  respected  Lattimer  because  of 
certain  qualities  of  rugged  manhood,  he  never  had 
trusted  the  man;  and  beneath  his  cold  civility 
toward  the  other  there  always  had  been  a  lurking 


232  WEST ! 

contempt,  aroused  over  the  stories  that  had  been 
told  regarding  Lattimer's  way  with  women. 

And  just  at  this  minute  he  was  filled  with  con 
cern  for  Josephine,  though  he  gazed  quizzically  at 
Betty. 

"You  say  you  quarreled  with  Miss  Hamilton?" 
he  said.  "Well" — at  her  severely  stiff  nod — that 's 
too  bad!" 

"Brannon,"  she  said  firmly,  "you  are  at  the  bot 
tom  of  this.  There  is  something  about  the  killing 
of  Tim  Callahan  that  has  n't  been  told — something 
that  I  believe  both  yau  and  Jo  know !  When  I 
got  back  from  Willets  Jo  told  me  you  had  shot 
Callahan  because  he  had  attacked  her.  You  re 
fused  to  talk  about  it.  This  morning  Jo  declared 
you  shot  Callahan  without  visible  provocation,  and 
that  she  lied  to  Cole  Meeder — telling  him  the  story 
she  told  me,  at  first — to  keep  Meeder  and  his  men 
from  hanging  you.  I  want  to  know  the  truth!" 

"I  reckon  the  lady  would  n't  lie,"  said  Brannon. 

"Brannon,  you  did  n't  kill  Tim  Callahan.  You 
did  n't !  You  know  you  did  n't !  And  you  know 
who  did.  I  want  you  to  tell  me!  And  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  exactly  what  happened  the  night  I 
was  in  Willets!" 

Betty's  faith  in  Brannon  was  great.  She  was 
positive  that  Brannon  had  not  committed  the  crime ; 
and  at  this  instant  she  was  not  so  much  concerned 
over  the  discovery  of  the  real  murderer  as  she  was 


WEST!  233 

over  the  knowledge  that  she  was  outside  of  Bran- 
non's  intimate  counsels;  that  he  was  deliberately 
holding  her  off,  keeping  her  in  ignorance  of  the 
secret  that  existed  between  himself  and  Josephine. 

She  was  furiously  angry  with  Brannon;  she  now 
hated  Josephine  because  Josephine  had  dared  to 
intimate  that  she  was  jealous  of  Brannon — al 
though  she  knew  she  was  jealous,  and  that  jealousy 
was  the  force  which  agitated  her  at  this  instant. 
She  stood  rigid,  on  the  verge  of  tears  because  of 
her  conviction  that  Josephine  did  like  Brannon 
despite  her  denial;  because  she  knew  that  Josephine 
had  liked  Brannon  from  the  beginning;  because  she 
was  convinced  that  Josephine  could  not  help  liking 
him,  as  she  herself  liked  him. 

Had  n't  Jo  questioned  her  about  Brannon  on  the 
day  they  had  ridden  together  to  Mrs.  Whitman's? 
Had  n't  Jo  asked  about  Brannon's  age  ?  And 
had  n't  she  commented  upon  Brannon's  appearance, 
remarking  in  this  fashion :  "It 's  the  wind  and  the 
sun  that  have  made  him  look  so  bronzed  and  rough, 
I  suppose;  and  the  hard  life  that  has  made  his  eyes 
seem  so — so  unflinchingly  steady"?  Wasn't  that 
evidence  that  Jo  was  interested  in  him  ?  And  had  n't 
Jo  told  her  that  same  day  that  she  hated  Brannon? 

Perhaps  Jo  had  thought  then  that  she  hated  Br-an- 
non;  but  her  interest  in  him  showed  that  she 
really  liked  him.  She  had  merely  felt  resentful 
toward  Brannon  because  she  had  been  testing  his 


234  WEST! 

mental  strength  and  had  found  it  superior  to  her 
own,  and  women  who  felt  that  way  toward  men  in 
the  beginning  always  fell  in  love  with  them  in  the 
end. 

Jo's  manner  at  the  Whitman  cabin  that  morning, 
her  unprovoked  and  vindictive  attack,  together 
with  Brannon's  somewhat  cynical  demeanor  when 
ever  Jo's  name  was  mentioned  in  his  presence,  con 
vinced  Betty  that  Jo  and  Brannon  had  quarreled, 
and  that  Jo's  real  reason  for  wanting  to  stay  at 
the  Whitman  cabin  was  that  she  wanted  to  be  where 
Brannon  could  not  see  her.  And  had  n't  Brannon 
been  reluctant  to  search  for  Jo  this  morning?  He 
had  known  all  the  time  that  Jo  had  left  the  Triangle 
L,  and  he  had  permitted  her  to  ride  over  there  to  be 
insulted ! 

She  wanted  Brannon  for  herself;  she  had  always 
wanted  him.  And  now  she  was  to  lose  him  because 
she  had  foolishly  invited  Jo  out  here. 

Theirs  was  a  lovers'  quarrel.  They  would  feel 
bitterly  resentful  toward  each  other  for  a  few  days; 
but  they  would  patch  up  their  differences  and  be 
more  in  love  than  ever.  And  she  would  lose 
Brannon ! 

She  saw  that  Brannon  did  not  mean  to  explain  ; 
would  not  answer  her  question.  For  she  saw  his 
eyes  glint  with  derision,  as  they  always  did  when  an 
opposing  force  challenged  him,  or  when  a  contrary 
passion  seized  him. 


WEST!  235 

"I  'm  not  doing  any  explaining  now,  Betty,"  he 
said  gently. 

Taking  Betty  into  his  confidence  might  disrupt 
his  plans.  At  the  least  he  would  be  compelled  to 
go  into  unpleasant  detail,  which  would  involve  dis 
closing  his  suspicions  concerning  Lattimer,  Joseph 
ine,  Ben  Whitman,  and  Mrs.  Whitman.  Although 
he  knew  Betty  was  dependable,  he  could  not  afford 
to  risk  having  her  speak  an  unguarded  word  that 
would  warn  Lattimer,  Ben  Whitman,  or  any  of 
them.  He  was  convinced  that — conceding  Lattimer 
were  a  member  of  a  band  of  thieves — there  might 
be  men  in  the  Triangle  L  outfit  who  would  carry 
tales  to  him.  And  with  Betty  and  Josephine  at 
odds  there  was  danger  that  in  a  moment  of  anger 
Betty  would  say  something  that  would  give  Joseph 
ine  a  hint  of  his  intentions. 

At  his  refusal  he  saw  Betty  catch  her  breath. 
Her  face  flamed ;  then  paled.  She  looked  reproach 
fully  at  him  while  one  might  have  drawn  a  full, 
deep  breath;  then  her  lips  quavered,  were  caught 
firmly  between  her  teeth. 

Then  Brannon  was  alone  on  the  veranda. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  WEEK'S  prowling  around  the  open  range  had 
added  no  shred  of  evidence  that  would  help 
to  confirm  Brannon's  suspicions  of  Lattimer's 
connection  with  the  horse-thieves.  Brannon  had 
spent  one  night  with  the  Triangle  L  outfit  on  the 
southern  range;  with  a  plausible  excuse  he  had  vis 
ited  other  cow-camps ;  and  he  had  subtly  questioned 
stray  riders  he  had  met  in  the  basin.  But  at  the 
end  of  the  week  he  chanced  upon  a  Star  man  over 
near  the  eastern  rim  of  the  basin,  who  told  him  with 
sinister  truculence  that  Meeder  was  looking  for  him. 

This  word  came  to  Brannon  just  at  dusk,  and  be 
fore  midnight  he  had  reached  the  Triangle  L  camp, 
had  routed  Lin  Murray  out,  and  the  two  were  riding 
toward  the  Triangle  L  ranch-house. 

They  made  a  leisurely  trip  and  got  in  at  dawn, 
to  be  t61d  by  Chong  that  Betty  had  driven  to  Willets 
the  day  before  and  was  not  expected  to  return  until 
afternoon. 

During  Brannon's  pilgrimages  of  the  last  week 
he  had  observed  that  men  who  formerly  had  been 
his  friends  had  treated  him  with  cold  reserve.  Not 
one  of  them  had  been  offensive,  none  had  intimated 

236 


WEST !  237 

by  word  or  sign  the  reason  for  their  coldness  to 
ward  him;  but  he  knew  that  word  of  the  killing  of 
Callahan  had  gone  abroad,  and  that  his  enemies 
were  pointing  significantly  that  the  Star  owner  had 
been  shot  in  the  back.  Even  his  friends  must  feel 
the  shame  of  the  incident,  since  they  could  offer  no 
defense  for  him. 

It  had  been  the  same  wherever  Brannon  went; 
and  when  the  Star  man  had  told  him  Cole  Meeder 
was  looking  for  him  he  decided  he  had  carried  the 
burden  of  blame  for  the  killing  of  Callahan  long 
enough. 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  continue  to 
shield  Josephine.  He  was  certain  she  had  not 
killed  Callahan;  he  was  equally  confident  that  Art- 
well  had  killed  him,  and  he  meant  to  act. 

He  felt  he  could  not  delay  an  aggressive  move 
ment  against  Lattimer  until  he  secured  additional 
evidence  of  the  latter's  complicity,  for  delay  would 
give  Lattimer  time  to  get  acquainted  with  Josephine, 
time  to  strengthen  the  insidious  bond  that  was 
already  between  them  by  reason  of  Josephine's 
secret  visit  to  the  Lazy  L. 

Brannon  had  decided  he  could  not  hope  to  convict 
Lattimer  with  the  evidence  he  already  had;  but  the 
fact  that  Lattimer  had  taken  Les  Artwell  in  would 
create  in  the  minds  of  the  cattle-men  of  the  section 
a  suspicion  of  Lattimer's  honesty  which  was  certain 
to  result  in  increased  watchfulness. 


238  WEST ! 

However,  the  real  reason  behind  Brannon's  impa 
tience  to  act  was  concern  for  Josephine.  A  stran 
ger  to  the  customs  of  a  cruel,  grim  country,  she 
had  been  recklessly  eager  in  her  endeavor  to  force 
upon  the  country  certain  principles  she  had  brought 
with  her,  and  had  been  drawn  into  the  company  of 
men  whose  influence  would  certainly  destroy  her. 
He  meant  to  save  her  from  the  folly  of  her  own 
unwise  impulses. 

He  had  brought  Lin  Murray  in  with  him  that  the 
latter  might  prepare  the  mess  and  bunk-houses  for 
the  return  of  the  outfit  on  the  morrow;  and  when 
he  and  Murray  reached  the  ranch  Murray  dropped 
wearily  down  upon  a  bench  outside  of  one  of  the 
bunk-houses. 

"I  'm  thinkin'  a  heap  of  gettin'  some  sleep  before 
I  start  hoein'  out,"  he  said. 

"All  right,  Murray,"  said  Brannon.  "I  'm  tak 
ing  a  look  around." 

Five  minutes  later  Murray  was  in  a  bunk,  snoring 
peacefully.  Brannon  cared  for  Murray's  horse, 
riding  his  own  and  leading  Murray's  to  the  stable, 
where  he  fed  and  watered  them.  Then  he  went  to 
his  shack,  cleaned  and  oiled  his  six-shooter,  and 
emerged  from  the  doorway  just  in  time  to  see  Cole 
Meeder  and  half  a  dozen  Star  men  turn  a  corner 
of  the  ranch-house  and  ride  toward  him  at  a  slow 
lope. 

The  Star  men  saw  him  instantly,  and  Meeder, 


WEST !  239 

riding  slightly  in  advance  of  the  others,  quickened 
the  stride  of  his  horse. 

Brannon  advanced  to  meet  the  men.  They  rode 
up  silently  and  surrounded  him,  sitting  on  their 
horses,  somberly  watchful,  their  eyes  alert  and 
coldly  truculent. 

Meeder  dismounted  and  walked  toward  Brannon, 
halting  at  a  little  distance,  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
passion.  His  body  was  bent  forward  slightly  from 
the  hips;  his  right  arm  was  held  out  from  his  side, 
the  elbow  significantly  crooked;  his  left /hand  was 
clenched,  his  legs  were  a-sprawl.  In  his  manner 
was  a  threat  of  violence,  imminent  and  deadly. 

Brannon  smiled  steadily  into  the  blazing  eyes  of 
the  other,  paying  no  attention  to  the  mounted  men. 

"Something  bothering  you,  Meeder?"  he  said. 

"You  're  damned  right !"  said  Meeder,  his  voice 
hoarse  with  passion.  "We  've  come  to  swing  you, 
Brannon!"  He  paused,  tensed,  straining,  evidently 
awaiting — expecting — a  hostile  movement. 

None  came.     Brannon's  gaze  was  unwavering. 

"You're  telling  me  what  for,  Meeder?"  he  ques 
tioned,  quietly. 

"For  killin'  Tim  Callahan!"  said  Meeder  explo 
sively.  "You  've  been  pretty  slick,  Brannon,  gettin' 
that  Hamilton  girl  to  take  the  blame,  an'  squirmin' 
out  from  under  yourself.  But  we  've  got  you 
now!" 

Meeder  laughed,  harshly,  derisively. 


240  WEST ! 

"You  was  a  fool  to  place  any  dependence  on  a 
woman  anyway,  Brannon.  I  '11  tell  you  that  before 
we  swing  you.  They  ain't  to  be  trusted.  One  day 
they  '11  think  enough  of  a  man  -to  lie  to  keep  him 
from  swingin',  an'  the  next  day  they'll  get  stuck 
on  another  man !" 

"Meaning  what,  Meeder?" 

"Shucks !'"  scoffed  Meeder.  He  leaned  forward 
and  peered  closely  at  Brannon.  "Do  yon  mean  to 
tell  me  you  don't  know  ?"  he  demanded.  "I  '11 
swear  you  don't"  he  added,  in  huge  astonishment. 

"Well  then,  listen  hard,  Brannon!  This  will  be 
news  to  you.  That  Hamilton  girl  is  livin'  with 
Lattimer  at  the  Lazy  L.  Been  there  a  whole  week 
— ever  since  the  day  after  you  downed  Callahan! 
That  gets  you — eh,  'Steel'  ?"  he  jeered  as  he  saw 
Brannon's  eyelashes  flicker  with  the  only  emotion 
he  betrayed. 

"It  takes  a  heap  to  make  Steel  Brannon  show  hu 
man;  but  that  news  done  it!" 

Brannon's  emotion  was  not  what  Meeder  thought 
it  was.  To  him,  Meeder's  news  merely  indicated 
that  Josephine  had  gone  to  Lattimer's  house  to 
nurse  Les  Artwell.  Artwell  must  have  been  badly 
wounded. 

"Who  told  you  that,  Meeder?" 

"Lattimer,"  declared  the  other.  "He  come  over 
to  the  Star  the  day  before  yesterday.  He  's  got 
pretty  confidential  with  Miss  Hamilton,  I  reckon. 


WEST !  241 

Says  he  's  goin'  to  marry  her,  an'  that  she  's  willin' 
to  tell  the  truth  about  the  killin'  of  Callahan. 
Accordin'  to  Lattimer,  she  claims  you-  done  the 
shootin'.  Goes  back  on  her  other  story  complete. 
Says  she  was  in  the  house  when  the  shot  was  fired, 
and  that  when  she  come  out  Callahan  was  down  an' 
you  was  standin'  there  with  a  gun  in  your  hand !" 

He  cast  a  significant  glance  at  the  sullen- faced 
men  surrounding  himself  and  Brannon;  he  straight 
ened,  spoke  shortly : 

"I  reckon  that 's  enough  for  us,  Brannon !"  He 
jerked  a  hand  sharply  toward  one  of  the  mounted 
men,  and  the  man  dexterously  began  to  uncoil  a 
rope  that  was  looped  at  the  saddle-horn. 

Brannon  was  conscious  of  the  danger  that 
confronted  him.  The  Star  men  were  convinced  of 
his  guilt,  and  would  certainly  hang  him  if  he  could 
not  produce  evidence  of  his  innocence. 

"I  'd  deserve  hanging  if  I  had  killed  Tim,  boys," 
he  said  quietly.  "And  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
I  lied  about  the  shooting  to  protect  Miss  Hamilton. 
I  thought  she  did  it;  but  I  discovered  later  that  Les 
Artwell  is  the  murderer." 

Meeder  laughed  mockingly;  the  other  men 
sneered  audibly. 

"Sure,"  said  Meeder;  "Artwell  done  it.  You 
tried  to  swing  him  off;  the  girl  wouldn't  let  you; 
an'  now  Artwell 's  come  back,  aimin'  to  give  you  a 
chance  to  do  it  over.  You  can't  hand  us  any  of 


242  WEST ! 

that  kind  of  ranikaboo,  Brannon — we  won't  swal 
low  it.  Where's  Artwell  now?"  he  grinned. 

"Miss  Hamilton  took  him  over  to  Lattimer's," 
said  Brannon. 

Meeder  started;  peered  intently  at  Brannon. 

"How  do  you  know  that,  Brannon?"  he  ques 
tioned. 

Brannon  caught  the  interested  note  in  the  Star 
foreman's  voice.  The  peculiar  eagerness  of  it  in 
dicated  that  Meeder  had  secretly  been  hoping-  that 
Brannon  would  be  able  to  clear  himself,  although 
through  a  sense  of  duty  he  would  not  have  hes 
itated  to  hang  him.  There  had  always  been  much 
mutual  respect  between  Meeder  and  Brannon. 

"Evidence,"  said  Brannon.  With  the  men  lis 
tening  attentively  he  related  to  Meeder  how  he  had 
found  the  Lazy  L  horse,  saddled  and  bridled,  stand 
ing  near  the  lean-to  on  the  morning  after  Meeder's 
previous  visit  to  the  Triangle  L;  how  he  had 
searched  the  slicker,  to  find  evidence  that  it  belonged 
to  Artwell.  He  spoke  of  the  crimson  stains  on  the 
straw  in  the  stable,  of  the  bloody  finger-prints  on 
the  stable  door;  of  the  missing  Billy — which  he  had 
later  discovered,  saddleless,  and  of  his  seeing  Den 
ver's  horse  in  the  Lattimer  corral,  and  of  Lattimer's 
action  in  covering  the  woman's  handkerchief  with 
his  boot. 

"If  you  're  in  a  hurry  to  swing  me,  you  can  start 
right  now,  Meeder,"  he  concluded.  "But  if  you  've 


WEST!  243 

got  a  couple  of  hours'  time  that  you  might  want  to 
squander  finding  the  man  who  did  shoot  Callahan 
in  the  back,  you  might  take  a  look  at  the  stable,  and 
then  ride  with  me  over  to  Lattimer's.  We  '11  find 
Artwell  there ;  and  maybe  Billy's  saddle." 

Meeder's  manner  was  that  of  grave  uncertainty. 
He  cast  a  searching  glance  into  the  faces  of  the 
mounted  men  surrounding  him,  seeming  silently  to 
inquire  of  them  their  opinions  regarding  the  strange 
and  unexpected  development.  Observing  the  bright 
interest  with  which  the  men  met  his  gaze,  Meeder 
said  shortly : 

"We  're  waitin',  Brannon." 

Watchful,  alert,  as  though  only  partly  convinced, 
the  riders  followed  Brannon  to  the  stable,  Meeder 
leading  his  own  animal  and  walking  beside  Brannon. 

The  men  grouped  themselves  at  the  stable  door 
and  examined  the  stains  on  the  jamb;  they  followed 
Brannon  inside  and  stood  silently  inspecting  the 
straw  where  Artwell  had  lain.  When  they  emerged 
from  the  stable  their  swift  glances  into  one  another's 
eyes  betrayed  their  eagerness  to  accept,  with  some 
reservations,  the  evidence  of  Artwell's  presence  in 
the  stable. 

"Them  spots  show  some  one  was  layin'  in  the 
straw,"  said  Meeder.  "They  show  that  some  one 
was  hit  bad.  That 's  all  right  as  far  as  it  goes.  I 
reckon  we  '11  ride  over  to  Lattimer's.  We  '11  trail 
you,  Brannon,"  he  added  significantly. 


244  WEST! 

Without  waking  the  sleeping  Murray,  without 
even  mentioning  that  the  Triangle  L  puncher  was  in 
the  bunk-house,  Brannon  saddled  and  bridled  the 
black  horse,  mounted  him,  and  rode  southward,  the 
Star  men  trailing  after  him. 

Meeder  rode  close  behind  Brannon,  saying  noth 
ing.  The  riders  behind  Meeder  muttered  occasion 
ally,  though  for  the  better  part  of  the  time  there  was 
no  sound  except  the  steady,  rapid  drumming  of 
hoofs  and  the  incessant  creaking  of  saddle-leather. 

The  morning  was  still  young  when  the  cavalcade 
halted  near  the  Lazy  L  corral  gates.  In  almost  the 
same  formation  that  had  marked  their  ride,  the 
men  approached  the  Lattimer  ranch-house. 

There  was  no  response  to  Brannon's  call,  or  to 
Meeder's  peremptory  summons.  Then,  impatiently 
indicating  that  the  Star  men  were  to  watch  Brannon, 
Meeder  mounted  the  veranda  and  entered  the  house. 

After  an  interval  he  emerged,  grinning  ironically, 
He  jerked  out  his  six-shooter,  covered  Brannon,  and 
laughed  harshly: 

"Looks  like  Steel  was  just  playin'  a  little  joke  on 
us,  boys,"  he  said.  "Les  Artwell  ain't  here;  Miss 
Hamilton  ain't  here ;  Lattimer  ain't  here — nobody  's 
here.  I  reckon  they  've  all  gone  away  to  Lattimer's 
weddin' !" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FROM  the  time  the  three  left  the  Lazy  L  ranch- 
house  Les  Artwell  lagged  behind.  It  was 
evident  he  was  not  as  strong  as  Josephine  and 
Lattimer  thought  him,  for  he  rode  holding  hard  to 
the  saddle-horn  and  swaying  perilously.  But  he 
was  eager  to  get  away,  and  had  no  complaints  to 
make  when  occasionally  Josephine  rode  close  to 
speak  to  him.  Lattimer  seemed  uninterested  and 
rode  ahead,  saying  little. 

Josephine  rode  forward  afflicted  with  strange  mis 
givings.  At  the  ranch-house  it  had  seemed  to  be 
a  perfectly  natural  thing  for  her  to  agree  to 
accompany  Lattimer  and  Artwell  to  Laskar;  but 
once  she  had  actually  started  and  was  well  into  the 
engulfing  silence  of  the  big  basin,  she  began  to 
have  grave  doubts  concerning  the  wisdom  of  making 
the  trip.  The  farther  she  drew  away  from  the 
ranch-house  the  more  she  doubted,  until,  after 
several  miles  had  been  traveled,  she  became  ner 
vously  apprehensive. 

Still,  as  nothing  happened,  she  rode  on,  at  last 
resolutely  keeping  her  thoughts  upon  Artwell.  She 

245 


246  WEST ! 

rode  close  to  him,  talking  to  him  occasionally,  ob 
serving  that  he  seemed  to  be  growing  weaker. 

At  first  the  horses  had  traveled  over  a  big  level, 
which  they  took  at  a  slow  lope,  swinging  along  with 
the  easy  motion  peculiar  to  the  plains  animal  accus 
tomed  to  long  journeys  and  instinctively  aware  that 
strength  must  be  conserved ;  then  they  swept  around 
the  bases  of  some  low  hills  and  toiled  tortuously  to 
the  crest  of  a  rocky  acclivity  which  turned  out  to  be 
a  narrow  ridge  whose  farther  slope  took  them  into 
a  saccaton  flat. 

It  was  a  broken  section  of  country,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  trail  such  as  one  might  expect 
to  find  leading  to  a  town.  But  Lattimer  seemed 
to  have  no  difficulty  in  going  ahead,  for  he  rode 
steadily,  looking  back  once  in  a  while,  apparently 
to  note  the  distance  between  himself  and  the  others. 

Josephine  did  not  regret  having  helped  Artwell, 
but  she  began  to  wish  that  circumstances  had  not 
conspired  to  have  her  on  the  train  on  the  particular 
day  upon  which  she  had  met  the  man.  In  fact 
she  now  looked  wistfully  backward  over  the  elapsed 
days,  wondering  why  she  had  come  to  such  a 
rough,  grim,  cruel  country  at  all! 

Yet  instantly  she  was  remorseful,  for  it  seemed 
to  her  that  her  fortuitous  presence  on  the  train  and 
her  subsequent  activities  on  behalf  of  Les  Artwell 
had  saved  him  from  a  fate  which  would  have  crushed 
Mrs.  Whitman. 


WEST !  247 

That  thought  stimulated  her  flagging  courage. 
Mrs.  Whitman's  pale,  delicate  face  and  quietly  cou 
rageous  birdlike  eyes  were  vivid  in  her  mental 
vision  as  she  rode. 

They  got  out  of  the  saccaton  flat  and  began 
to  ascend  a  slope.  They  went  on  for  a  long  time, 
Lattimer  in  the  lead,  riding  slowly.  Artwell  trail 
ing  behind.  Up,  up,  they  rode,  the  floor  of  the 
basin  growing  dim  behind  them.  After  a  time  they 
reached  a  rock  level  which  was  little  more  than  a 
ledge.  Here  Lattimer  brought  his  horse  to  a  halt 
and  wheeled  so  that  he  faced  the  back  trail. 

Horse  and  man  seemed  to  be  of  heroic  size  in 
Josephine's  vision  as  she  urged  her  own  animal 
toward  the  ledge;  and  with  the  moonlight  shining 
fairly  upon  them  and  bringing  into  sharp  relief 
every  detail  of  the  wild  background,  there  was 
drawn,  as  with  a  stroke  of  a  giant  brush,  a  picture 
which  appealed  to  all  that  was  primitive  in  the  girl. 

And  yet,  strangely,  she  was  frightened.  As  her 
horse  clambered  to  the  ledge  and  came  to  a  halt, 
grunting  with  relief,  she  saw  that  Lattimer  was  not 
paying  any  attention  to  her.  Nor  did  he  even 
glance  at  Artwell  as  the  latter  brought  his  horse  to 
a  halt  on  the  ledge  and  sat  swaying  wearily  in  the 
saddle. 

Lattimer's  gaze  was  directed  downward  into  the 
basin.  His  face  was  expressionless,  and  it  appeared 
to  Josephine  that  he  had  stopped  here  merely  to 


248  WEST ! 

breathe  the  horses.  She  urged  her  own  animal  close 
to  Artwell's  and  asked  him  how  he  was  standing  the 
ride. 

"All  right,"  he  answered  thinly.  Then  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  appeared  to  be  resting,  leaning  against 
the  high  pommel  of  the  saddle. 

Josephine  wheeled  her  horse  and  looked  out  and 
down.  Instantly  she  was  impressed  with  the  sharp 
ascent  of  the  trail  they  had  traveled;  to  her  inex 
perienced  eye  it  seemed  almost  precipitous. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  half-way  up  a  slope 
that  led  to  a  mesa — one  of  those  levels  that  from 
the  veranda  of  the  Triangle  L  ranch-house  had 
seemed  to  her  like  a  narrow  terrace.  The  slope 
that  formed  the  rim  of  the  basin  was  still  many 
miles  distant  behind  them. 

And  yet,  gazing  out  and  down,  the  floor  of 
the  basin  seemed  dim  and  far  to  Josephine.  In 
the  ghostly  haze  that  swathed  the  big  hollow,  the 
hills  they  had  circled  appeared  to  be  merely  insigni 
ficant  excrescences,  slight  corrugations  upon  a 
level.  The  flats  themselves  were  no  more  than 
patches;  dark  where  grass  grew,  a  dull  gray  on  the 
barrens. 

Remote,  formless,  were  other  salient  features 
of  the  valley;  they  were  blots  that  seemed  somberly 
to  lurk  in  the  shadows  of  distances,  their  rugged 
outlines  softened  by  the  moon  radiance.  The  liquid 
silver  of  a  river  caught  her  gaze;  she  followed  its 


WEST !  249 

sinuous  course  eastward  until  it  was  lost  to  her 
vision  in  the  dim,  wispy  tracery  of  the  trees. 

She  was  so  engrossed  with  the  beauty  of  the 
picture  that  a  sound  from  Lattimer  startled  her. 
She  glanced  quickly  at  him,  to  see  that  he  was  smil 
ing  contemptuously.  The  sound  he  had  made  had 
been  a  sneer. 

He  was  still  gazing  downward.  And  now,  as 
though  aware  that  she  had  observed  his  interest, 
he  spoke  shortly. 

"Some  one  is  trailing  us.  I  aim  to  find  out  who 
it  is." 

"Brannon?"   she  ejaculated  apprehensively. 

"I  don't  think  it 's  Brannon,"  he  said.  "He 's 
too  big  for  Brannon.  He  's  been  trailing  us  for 
quite  a  while.  I  saw  him  when  we  crossed  that 
ridge  down  there."  He  pointed. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  she  inquired. 

"We  '11  wait  here,  I  reckon,"  he  said.  "He 's 
coming." 

Intently  scrutinizing  the  back  trail,  Josephine  was 
at  last  able  to  distinguish  a  blot  that  seemed  to  be 
moving  steadily  toward  them.  The  blot  was  still 
a  little  distance  out  into  the  basin  and  was  moving 
rapidly;  and  while  she  watched  it  she  saw  it  reach 
the  bottom  of  the  slope  and  begin  to  mount,  now 
coming  forward  with  irregular  movement.  The 
blot  became  a  horse  and  rider. 

They  were  half-way  up  the  slope  when  Josephine 


250  WEST ! 

detected  something  familiar  in  the  outlines  of  the 
man. 

"It 's  Ben  Whitman !"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  've  got  mighty  good  eyes,"  said  Lattimer. 
"It's  Whitman." 

At  the  word,  Artwell  seemed  to  revive. 

"Whitman!"  he  sneered.  "What  in  hell's  he 
trailin'  us  for  ?  He 's  always  hornin"  in,  damn 
him!" 

Lattimer  laughed. 

"Your  brotherly  affection  don't  seem  to  run  very 
deep,  Les,"  he  said,  sneeringly. 

Artwell  muttered  unintelligibly,  and  again  slumped 
against  the  saddlehorn.  This  time  his  body  was 
inert,  as  though  the  effort  of  talking  had  overtaxed 
him. 

Staring  affrightedly  at  him,  Josephine  saw  him 
topple  and  begin  to  pitch  forward  jerkily,  as  though 
he  realized  he  was  going  to  fall  and  was  exerting 
his  failing  muscles  to  stay  in  the  saddle. 

She  cried  sharply  to  Lattimer,  but  he  paid  no  at 
tention,  seeming  to  be  intent  upon  watching  Whit 
man,  who  was  now  close  and  coming  rapidly. 

Seeing  that  Lattimer  did  not  intend  to  help  Art- 
well  Josephine  slipped  off  her  horse  and  ran  to 
him.  She  was  too  late,  though,  for  just  as  "she 
reached  him  he  tumbled  forward,  clutched  weakly  at 
the  horse's  neck,  missed  it,  and  fell  heavily  on  his 
right  shoulder. 


WEST!  251 

Josephine  screamed.  There  was  something  ter 
ribly  final  in  the  way  Artwell  had  fallen,  and  the 
ashen  gray  of  his  face  when  she  frenziedly  turned 
him  over  upon  his  back  told  her  plainly  that,  inno 
cent  or  guilty,  he  had  escaped  the  laws  of  men. 

She  was  kneeling  beside  Artwell's  body,  dazedly 
comprehending  that  further  effort  to  help  him  would 
be  useless,  overcome  with  an  oppressing  conviction 
of  her  complete  impotence,  when  Whitman's  horse 
clambered  to  the  ledge  and  heaved  a  great  sigh  of 
relief. 

The  animal  came  to  a  halt  facing  her,  and  she 
saw  its  flaring  nostrils,  its  wide,  wild  eyes;  noted 
the  rippling  of  its  huge  muscles,  as  it  stood  with 
legs  braced,  its  strength  spent  in  the  furious  climb 
upward. 

She  got  one  quick  glimpse  of  Ben  Whitman's  face 
as  for  an  instant  his  gaze  rested  on  her  as  he 
brought  the  horse  to  a  halt.  She  felt  that  she 
would  never  forget  the  expression  of  Whitman's 
eyes.  There  was  reproach  in  them  and  pity.  But 
greater  than  these  two,  and  more  intense,  was  rage, 
cold,  repressed. 

Then  Whitman  slipped  off  the  horse  and  walked 
to  Lattimer. 

Josephine  saw  that  Lattimer  had  dismounted. 
He  must  have  got  off  his  horse  while  she  had  been 
occupied  with  Artwell;  and  when  Whitman  ap 
proached  him  he  stood,  legs  slightly  apart,  his  hands. 


252  WEST! 

resting  on  his  hips.  On  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes 
was  the  merest  shadow  of  a  smile. 

Whitman  halted  within  a  yard  of  Lattimer.  Jose 
phine  saw  the  faces  of  both  men ;  she  noted  how  the 
smile  died  on  Lattimer's  lips;  how  the  lips  curved 
with  malevolence;  she  heard  how  Whitman's  voice 
leaped  with  passion  when  he  spoke. 

"Lattimer,"  he  said,  "I  want  the  girl!" 

"Whitman,"  said  Lattimer,  "she  goes  with  me." 
His  voice  was  smooth,  in  startling  contrast  to  the 
violent,  repressed  passion  in  the  other's. 

"Where  you  takin'  her,  Lattimer?" 

"It 's  none  of  your  business,  Whitman,"  said 
Lattimer  smoothly;  "but  if  you  must  know,  I'm 
taking  her  to  Laskar." 

"You 're  a  liar!" 

Whitman  fell  into  a  crouch.  His  right  arm  went 
up,  crooked  at  the  elbow,  the  fingers  were  spread, 
clawlike,  above  the  holster  at  his  hip. 

"You  're  a  liar,  Lattimer!"  he  repeated.  "You  're 
off  the  Laskar  trail — two  miles  off.  You  're  headin' 
south  to  Panya  Cache,  your  hangout;  yours  an'  the 
damned  gang  of  thieves  under  you ! 

"Hell!  You  didn't  know  I  knowed  that — eh?" 
he  sneered  at  Lattimer's  start.  "I  Ve  knowed  it 
for  a  year.  Les  let  it  out  one  day,  not  thinkin'. 

"You  're  takin'  the  girl  there,  Lattimer.  You 
intend  makin'  a  fool  of  her ;  you  've  intended  to  all 
along.  You  ain't  goin'  to  do  it,  I  tell  you!  If 


WEST!  253 

mother  had  known  what  a  polecat  you  are  she 
would  n't  have  let  the  girl  go  over  to  your  place, 
even  to  save  Les.  You  've  got  mother  fooled,  same 
as  you  Ve  had  every  one  else  around  hyeh  fooled — 
except  me! 

"I  've  been  on  to  you  right  along,  Lattimer.  I  've 
been  ridin'  sign  on  you  an'  Miss  Hamilton  all  the 
time  she  's  been  over  to  your  place.  I  seen  you 
send  Denver  south  the  day  before  Miss  Hamilton 
came  to  your  place,  leadin'  a  pack  outfit,  loaded  with 
traps  you  're  goin'  to  use  in  the  cache.  I  pretty 
near  missed  you  when  you  left  last  night,  but  I 
picked  up  your  trail,  an'  I  'm  hyeh  to  say  you  ain't 
takin'  this  girl  with  you!" 

Stunned  by  the  significance  of  Ben  Whitman's 
words,  Josephine  got  to  her  feet  uncertainly  as  Whit 
man  ceased  speaking.  As  she  stood  erect  she  saw 
the  two  men  standing  there  motionless.  Then, 
like  a  flash,  Whitman's  clawlike  fingers  descended 
to  the  holster  at  his  hip.  The  huge  weapon  was 
half-way  out  of  the  holster  when  a  lance  flame 
darted  from  Lattimer's  side  and  seemed  to  strike 
Whitman  in  the  chest.  She  saw  Whitman  straight 
en,  stagger,  straighten  again,  and  turn  partly  side- 
wise  to  Lattimer,  who  stood  watching  him,  a  sneer 
ing  smile  on  his  lips.  Then  Whitman's  knees  sagged 
oddly  and  he  pitched  forward  into  the  dust,  face 
down. 

Lattimer  stood  over  him,  pistol  in  hand,  watching. 


254  WEST ! 

"I  reckon  you  knew  too  much,  Ben,"  he  said. 

With  a  slow  movement  Lattimer  holstered  the 
weapon  and  turned  to  Josephine,  who,  terrified  by 
the  tragedy  she  had  witnessed,  was  watching  him 
in  dread  fascination. 

"Get  on  your  horse,  Miss  Hamilton,"  he  said, 
walking  toward  her;  "we  've  got  quite  a  ride  before 
us." 


CHAPTER     XXVI 

BEFORE  the  sound  of  Meeder's  voice  was  swal 
lowed  in  the  deep  silence  that  surrounded  the 
ranch-house,  Brannon  had  recovered  from  his  as 
tonishment  over  the  announcement  that  Lattimer, 
Art  well,  and  Miss  Hamilton  had  gone.  In  that 
fleeting  instant  he  also  realized  that  Cole  Meeder 
and  his  men  would  permit  no  further  delay.  That 
they  had  not  found  Artwell  at  the  Lattimer  ranch- 
house  would  be  sufficient  proof  in  their  minds  that 
Brannon  had  lied  in  a  hope  that  through  delay  he 
might  escape  them. 

Cole  Meeder's  sarcastic  explanation  of  the  ab 
sence  of  Lattimer  and  Miss  Hamilton  moved 
Meeder  to  grim  mirth.  He  opened  his  mouth  to 
laugh,  and  glanced  at  the  other  men  with  embar 
rassed  eyes,  knowing  there  would  be  times  in  the 
future  when  he  would  have  to  endure  gibes  over 
the  easy  manner  in  which  Brannon  had  delayed  his 
own  execution. 

When  Meeder's  brain  again  resumed  its  normal 
function  he  became  aware  that  he  was  lying  flat 
on  his  back  on  the  porch  floor,  without  his  being 
conscious  of  how  he  had  got  there.  His  six-shooter 

255 


256  WEST! 

was  lying  a  dozen  feet  from  him,  and  Brannon, 
crouching  almost  at  the  edge  of  the  porch,  his  huge 
gun  rigid  in  his  right  hand,  his  eyes  swimming 
in  seeming  unfixed  vacuity,  was  holding  the 
Star  men  motionless  with  their  hands  reaching 
skyward. 

Of  course  Meeder  had  been  a  fool  to  take  chances 
with  Brannon ;  he  knew  that,  now.  He  had  known 
that  Brannon  was  lightning  fast  on  the  "draw" ; 
he  well  knew  the  man's  reputation  for  coolness  and 
resourcefulness  in  any  sort  of  a  crisis  that  con 
fronted  him.  But  what  he  had  not  known  was  that 
Brannon's  voice  could  be  so  cold,  smooth,  and 
metallic. 

"You  boys  are  too  quick  to  jump  at  conclusions," 
Brannon  was  saying.  "I  'm  wanting  you  to  be 
lieve  me  when  I  tell  you  I  did  n't  shoot  Tim  Calla- 
han.  I  'm  making  you  believe  me  if  I  have  to  shoot 
the  conviction  into  your  heads ! 

"From  now  on  I  'm  running  this  outfit.  I'm  not 
going  to  let  you  hang  me  and  live  to  regret  it.  Les 
Artwell  was  here.  Miss  Hamilton  was  here.  Latti- 
mer  has  taken  them  away.  We  're  going  to  find  them. 
But  before  we  pull  our  freight  from  here  we  're 
going  to  find  the  Triangle  L  saddle  that  was  on 
Billy  when  Artwell  rode  him  over  here.  Finding  it 
will  show  you  boys  that  part  of  my  story  was  cor 
rect,  anyway !" 

He  singled  out  one  of  the  Star  men  with  a  glance. 


WEST!  257 

It  was  a  man  he  knew,  and  the  latter  jumped  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice : 

"Latson,  let  your  hands  down — easy — taking  care 
to  lift  your  gun  by  taking  it  between  your  thumb  and 
forefinger.  That 's  it — exactly.  Now,  still  hold 
ing  it  that  way,  drop  it  into  the  sand  by  the  edge 
of  the  porch.  Now  rustle  up  that  Triangle  saddle !" 

The  man  Latson  obeyed  quickly,  and  vanished 
through  a  doorway  behind  Brannon. 

Brannon  then  disarmed  the  other  men,  using 
the  method  he  had  employed  with  Latson.  He 
issued  his  orders  drawlingly,  with  a  hint  of  grim 
humor  in  his  voice,  but  the  Star  men  knew  earnest 
ness  when  they  saw  it,  and  all  recognized  the  need 
for  repression  and  carefulness. 

Brannon's  present  aggressiveness  was  more  con 
vincing  than  his  previous  apparent  peacefulness. 
That  he  was  prepared  to  fight  in  order  to  estab 
lish  his  innocence  could  not  be  doubted.  Holding 
his  present  advantage  he  might  have  contrived  to 
make  prisoners  of  the  men  while  he  rode  to  safety, 
taking  their  horses  with  him. 

Cole  Meeder,  having  received  no  invitation  to 
rise,  was  still  flat  on  his  back  on  the  veranda 
floor,  rolling  his  head  from  side  to  side  in 
order  to  watch  the  movements  of  Brannon  and 
the  others.  He  grinned  with  huge  embarrassment 
when  he  realized  that  Brannon  did  not  mean  to  es 
cape. 


258  WEST! 

"Brannon,"  he  said,  "you  ain't  intendin'  to  drag 
it?" 

"Meeder,"  said  Brannon,  "you  never  had  an  idea 
that  I  shot  Tim  Callahan  in  the  back." 

"That  idea  has  been  plumb  knocked  out  of  me, 
Brannon — if  I  ever  had  it.  If  you  'd  let  me  set  up, 
so  's  I  could  work  my  jaws  better,  I  'd  like  to  say 
a  word  to  the  boys." 

He  was  sitting  up  when  Latson  reappeared.  Lat- 
son  was  carrying  a  saddle.  He  dropped  it  to  the  ve 
randa  floor,  and  without  waiting  to  consult  Bran- 
non's  wishes  the  men,  Meeder  included,  crowded 
around  it. 

Brannon  stepped  back  a  little,  watching;  for 
he  knew  their  childlike  curiosity  would  quickly 
change  to  suspicion. 

It  was  Billy's  saddle.  The  Triangle  L  brand  on 
one  of  the  saddle-skirts  was  mute  evidence  of  owner 
ship.  In  this  one  particular,  Brannon's  story  was 
true;  and  embarrassed  grins  began  to  show  on  the 
faces  of  the  men. 

"Looks  all  regular — an'  correct,"  said  one  of  the 
men. 

*'Mebbe  we  've  been  millin'  some,"  remarked  an 
other  doubtfully.  "That  there  blood  in  the  stable. 
an'  now  the  saddle — " 

"When  a  man  don't  run  when  he  's  got  a  chance 
it 's  a  heap  more  convincin' — to  me — than  any 


WEST !  259 

saddle,"  interrupted  Cole  Meeder.  "I  reckon  mebbe 
we  've  been — " 

He  paused,  his  mouth  open,  and  stared  past  the 
other  men  toward  an  open  space  that  stretched 
between  the  veranda  and  the  corral.  Seeing  his 
evident  astonishment,  the  others  turned  also.  All 
but  Brannon,  who  watched  the  man  fearing  a  trick. 

But  Meeder's  movement  was  no  part  of  a  trick. 

A  horse  had  come  into  view  on  the  level  between 
the  corral  and  the  house.  On  the  horse  sitting  erect 
in  the  saddle  was  Ben  Whitman.  Lying  face  down 
across  Whitman's  knees,  his  arms  hanging  limply 
on  one  side  of  the  horse,  his  legs  dangling  on  the 
other,  was  another  man. 

"Whitman!"  exclaimed  Meeder. 

The  group  on  the  porch  awaited  Whitman's  ap 
proach.  He  rode  up  to  within  a  dozen  yards  of 
the  veranda  edge  and  brought  the  animal  under  him 
to  a  halt.  And  now  the  men  on  the  veranda  saw 
that  the  giant  was  ghastly  pale  and  that  he  swayed 
slightly  in  the  saddle. 

But  on  his  face  was  a  smile  of  grim  irony. 

"Lookin'  for  Les  Artwell,  eh?"  he  said,  laughing 
shortly.  "You  got  hyeh  a  little  too  late,  boys. 

"This  hyeh  is  Les  Artwell.  He  's  mine,  boys. 
I  'm  takin'  him  home — home  to  his  mother !  Don't 
you  boys  touch  him!" 

His  voice  rose  defiantly.     He  dropped  one  hand 


26o  WEST ! 

to  his  pistol  holster,  got  the  weapon  half-way  out 
of  its  sheath.  Then  he  swayed,  drooped  forward 
to  the  saddle-horn,  and  toppled  sidewise  unconscious, 
as  the  men  on  the  veranda,  Brannon  first  of  all,  ran 
toward  him. 


CHAPTER     XXVII 

WHILE  Josephine  Hamilton  stayed  at  Latti- 
mer's  ranch-house  caring  for  Les  Artwell, 
Betty  Lawson  might  have  found  plenty  of  opportun 
ity  to  nurse  her  resentment  for  her  guest.     But  she 
did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

She  resolutely  kept  her  thoughts  from  dwelling 
upon  the  quarrel,  deciding  that  Jo's  temper  had  got 
the  better  of  her  and  expecting,  knowing  something 
of  her  guest's  character,  that  one  day  she  would  ride 
over  to  the  Triangle  L  and  make  peace. 

But  Betty  could  not  so  easily  dismiss  thoughts  of 
Brannon.  Of  course  if  Brannon  preferred  Jo  to 
her,  he  was  welcome  to  her ;  though  she  was  positive 
she  would  never  get  over  the  hurt.  Still  she  told 
herself,  with  a  defiance  that  was  almost  satisfying, 
she  did  n't  want  a  man  that  she  would  have  to  "run" 
after,  and  though  Brannon  was  most  desirable  to 
her,  she  would  have  none  of  him  if  she  had  to 
show  him  that  she  liked  him. 

But  the  days  following  Brannon's  departure  for 
the  south  range  to  join  the  outfit  proved  to  be  slow- 
dragging  and  depressing  despite  her  determination 
to  forget  what  had  happened. 

261 


262  WEST ! 

Chong  irritated  her;  the  ranch-house  seemed 
gloomy  and  oppressive;  the  outside  world  mocked 
her  with  its  calm  serenity  and  its  smiling  indifference 
to  the  turmoil  that  raged  within  her ;  and  there  were 
times  when  she  stood  on  the  big  veranda  staring 
into  space  through  a  filmy  mist  of  tears,  her  lips 
tight  pressed  to  keep  them  from  quivering. 

Her  decision  to  go  to  Willets  resulted  from  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  seek  companionship,  or  at 
least  to  look  upon  the  faces  of  people  of  her  own 
race.  Chong's  bland  countenance  and  his  servile, 
ingratiating  manner  disgusted  her.  Her  own  mood 
was  too  militantly  belligerent  to  permit  her  to  bear 
in  patience  the  vast  lonesomeness  that  had  settled 
over  the  Triangle  L. 

She  roped  the  horses,  hitched  them  to  the  buck- 
board,  and  drove  to  Willets,  arriving  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

Instantly  she  discovered  that  she  had  not  wanted 
to  come  to  Willets  at  all. 

The  town's  lethargic  atmosphere  seemed  to  settle 
into  the  marrow  of  her  bones;  its  squalor  appalled 
her;  its  maudlin  shanties  offended  her;  its  people 
provoked  her  to  sardonic  reflection — to  the  con 
viction  that  it  was  Brannon  that  she  wanted  to  see, 
and  not  the  town  at  all  ! 

But  she  endured  Willets  until  dawn.  At  that 
time  she  was  up  and  dressed  and  descending  the 
stairs  of  the  hotel  where  she  had  passed  the  night. 


WEST !  263 

She  had  made  some  purchases  the  night  before; 
and  these  she  lugged  downstairs  with  her,  carrying 
them  outside  to  the  stable,  where  she  put  them  into 
the  buckboard.  She  had  resolved  to  leave  Willets 
right  after  breakfast;  but  as  she  passed  the  hotel 
desk,  behind  which  stood  a  tousled-haired,  blear-eyed 
clerk  whispering  confidentially  with  two  other  men, 
disreputable-looking  characters,  she  decided  she 
would  forego  even  the  pleasure  of  breakfasting 
there. 

She  was  in  no  hurry,  though;  and  took  her  time 
stowing  the  packages  into  the  buckboard.  Then 
she  returned  to  pay  her  bill. 

As  she  stood  at  the  desk  she  saw  that  the  two 
men  exchanged  glances  with  the  clerk — -sly,  oddly 
amused  glances,  significant  of  a  secret  understanding, 
of  mutual  knowledge  with  which  she  was  in  some 
way  concerned. 

Her  blood  pounded  in  her  veins  with  righteous 
wrath,  but  she  pretended  not  to  notice  the  glances, 
paid  her  bill,  and  started  out.  But  before  she 
reached  the  door  she  heard  one  of  the  men  say,  in 
a  loud  whisper : 

"Yes — Betty  Lawson.  That  Eastern  female  she 
brought  out  here  has  been  with  Lattimer  at  the 
Lazy  L  for  a  week!"  The  vulgar  laugh  which  fol 
lowed  his  words  almost  provoked  Betty  to  turn  on 
him. 

But  she  controlled  herself.  She  went  out  and 
hitched  up  the  horses,  glad  that  she  had  fed  and 


264  WEST ! 

watered  them  when  she  had  brought  the  packages 
down.  She  worked  swiftly,  though  with  an  out 
ward  show  of  deliberation,  for  she  suspected  that 
the  men  were  watching  her.  She  could  not  keep 
the  crimson  out  of  her  cheeks,  and  her  dismay  over 
the  thing  she  had  heard  was  so  deep  that  it  seemed 
she  could  cry  aloud  for  relief.  Only  once,  though,  as 
she  worked  with  the  horses,  did  she  yield  to  speech, 
an  almost  tearful  "Darn  Lattimer!"  which  burst 
chokingly  from  her  lips. 

She  backed  the  horses  out  of  the  shed  after  she 
got  them  hitched,  and  wheeled  them  in  the  stable 
yard  with  commendable  deliberation,  for  she  saw 
the  men  watching  her  from  a  window.  And  though 
the  horses  were  eager  for  a  run,  she  held  them  to  a 
slow  trot  until  she  was  fully  a  mile  from  town. 
Then  she  spoke  to  them,  viciously: 

"Now  run,  darn  you!" 


CHAPTER     XXVIII 

LIN  MURRAY  had  slept  peacefully  while  Cole 
Meeder  and  the  other  Star  men  had  enter 
tained  Brannon;  with  his  grizzled  face  turned  up 
ward  in  his  bunk  he  had  dreamed  while  Brannon  had 
been  pointing  out  to  the  Star  men  the  evidence  of 
Les  Artwell's  previous  presence  in  the  Triangle  L 
stable.  And  Murray  had  not  stirred  when  Brannon 
had  ridden  away  with  Meeder  and  his  men. 

But  later  Murray  became  aware  of  a  hand  in  his 
hair,  an  ungentle  hand  that  rocked  his  head  back  and 
forth;  and  of  a  sharp  voice  which  seemed  to  have 
curiously  penetrating  power — and  seemed  to  be 
long  to  some  one  he  knew. 

He  awoke  to  stare  with  resentful  perplexity  into 
the  glowing,  determined  eyes  of  Betty  Lawson,  who 
was  standing  beside  him,  and  whose  hand  it  was 
that  seemed  intent  upon  pulling  his  hair  out  roots 
and  all. 

"Hey — leggo!"  he  bawled  protestingly.  "What 
you  a-pullin'  my  hair  for?" 

"Wake  up,  then,  and  listen  to  me,  you  infernal 
sleepy-head!"  said  Betty  viciously.  "What  are  you 
doing  here?  Where  's  Brannon?  What  were  Cole 

265 


266  WEST ! 

Meeder  and  his  men  doing  here?  What  did  they 
want?  Where  did  they  go  with  Brannon?" 

"Huh?" 

Murray  had  gone  to  sleep  with  his  clothes  on; 
he  now  swung  around  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bunk,  staring  at  Betty  in  huge  astonishment. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  frowning.  "Let 's 
get  them  questions  straightened  out.  Hell !"  he  ex 
claimed,  for  the  first  time  noting  the  intense  excite 
ment  in  Betty's  eyes;  "I  reckon  something's  hap 
pened  !" 

"Everything  has  happened,  it  seems !"  said  Betty. 
"I  can't  make  head  or  tail  out  of  anything  Chong 
says,  except  that  Cole  Meeder  and  six  or  seven  of 
his  men  were  here ;  that  they  drew  guns  on  Brannon, 
inspected  the  stable,  and  then  rode  south,  Brannon 
with  them." 

"Hell's  fire!" 

Murray's  eyes  were  a-gleam  with  apprehension; 
the  profane  exclamation  was  eloquent  of  impotence. 

"Why  did  n't  Chong  wake  me  up  ?  Why  did  n't 
Brannon  rush  them  scum  in  here,  so  's  I  'd  be  wise 
to  what  they're  up  to?  They  headed  south,  eh?" 

Murray  was  buckling  on  his  cartridge-belt.  He 
was  raging  with  impatience,  muttering,  grumbling, 
cursing. 

"I  've  knowed  right  along  that  somethin'  was 
wrong!"  he  declared  as  he  tightened  the  belt.  "Ever 


WEST !  267 

since  I  seen  Brannon  leadin'  that  Lazy  L  hoss  south 
I  've  been  wonderin' — " 

"A  Lazy  L  horse!"  Betty  seized  Murray  by  the 
shoulders  and  shook  him.  Her  eyes  were  wide  with 
excitement. 

"Talk,  Murray!"  she  commanded,  stamping  a  foot 
furiously  when  Murray  opened  his  mouth  in  aston 
ishment  at  her  vehemence:  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"A  Lazy  L  hoss,"  repeated  Murray.  "The  day 
Miss  Hamilton  went  away  I  saw  Brannon  an'  a 
Lazy  L  hoss  near  the  lean-to  alongside  the  stable. 
Me  an'  Brannon  was  figurin'  to  ride  south  that 
mornin'  an'  I  'd  overslept.  Brannon  come  past 
here  while  I  was  rustlin'  up  some  grub.  He  went 
to  the  stable.  I  seen  him  lookin'  at  a  strange  hoss, 
which  was  saddled  an'  bridled.  I  got  them  field- 
glasses  your  dad  bought  for  us  boys  an'  took  a  look 
at  that  hoss.  It  was  branded  Lazy  L. 

"I  did  n't  say  nothin'  to  Brannon.  Brannon 
acted  sort  of  sneakin'  that  mornin'.  After  he  'd 
sized  the  hoss  up  he  went  prowling  around  the 
stable  an'  inside  of  it.  Then  he  came  out  again  and 
took  the  strange  hoss  down  the  river  a  piece.  Then 
after  you  'd  gone  away  lookin'  for  Miss  Hamilton, 
Brannon  told  me  he  'd  changed  his  mind  about 
joinin'  the  outfit. 

"I  went  alone,  an'  Brannon  rode  south,  toward 
Lattimer's  place,  leadin'  the  Lazy  L  hoss!"  Murray 


268  WEST ! 

had  tightened  his  belt  to  his  apparent  satisfaction, 
and  now  he  asked,  his  perplexed  eyes  boring  into 
Betty's : 

"What  do  you  suppose  he  was  doin'  with  the 
Lattimer  hoss?" 

"That 's  what  I  mean  to  find  out,  Murray !"  said 
Betty.  Her  excitement  had  gone,  suddenly.  Her 
face  was  pale,  her  lips  were  set  grimly,  and  her 
voice  was  cold,  determined. 

"Saddle  two  horses,  Murray,"  she  ordered. 
"Somebody  's  going  to  talk — straight !  I  rather 
think  it  will  be  Satan  Lattimer!" 


CHAPTER     XXIX 

WHEN  Brannon  reached  Ben  Whitman's  side 
Whitman  toppled  gently  into  his  arms. 
The  Star  men  were  close  behind  him  and  together 
they  lifted  Whitman  down  and  carried  him  to  the 
veranda,  where  they  got  him  stretched  out  and  cared 
for  his  wound. 

Lattimer's  bullet  had  struck  him  in  the  chest 
rather  high,  and  Meeder,  who  was  first  to  examine 
the  wound,  declared  the  missile  had  not  touched  the 
lung  and  that  \Vhitman  had  a  fighting  chance  for 
life. 

"He's  bled  a  lot,  though,"  said  Meeder;  "an' 
he  's  pretty  well  done  up.  I  reckon  one  of  you  boys 
had  better  hit  the  breeze  for  town  an'  a  doctor. 
Artwell  won't  need  no  doctor,"  he  added,  grimly. 

"Artwell  ain't  dead  yet,  but  he  ain't  far  from  it," 
volunteered  a  Star  man  who  had  helped  to  take 
Artwell  off  Whitman's  horse. 

Already  another  Star  man  was  riding  northward. 
Meeder  did  not  answer  the  man  who  had  volun 
teered  the  information  regarding  Artwell;  his  gaze 
was  following  the  progress  of  the  Star  man  who  had 
ridden  north.  A  little  eastward  from  the  Star  rider 

269 


270  WEST ! 

came  a  dust-cloud,  and  racing  ahead  of  the  cloud 
were  two  horsemen. 

"We  're   goin't   to   have   company,"    announced 
Meeder. 

Brannon,  \vorking  with  Whitman,  turned  to  fol 
low  Meeder's  gaze. 

"Betty  Lawson  and  Lin  Murray,"  he  said  im- 
perturbably. 

Whitman,  responding  to  cold  applications  over  his 
wound  and  to  sundry  potions  of  water  that  Brannon 
succeeded  in  forcing  down  his  throat,  was  reviving. 
His  eyes  opened;  he  struggled  and  sat  up,  deter 
minedly  pushing  away  Brannon's  restraining  hands. 

He  looked  around ;  saw  a  Star  man  working  over 
Artwell — who  had  also  been  laid  on  the  porch — 
and  the  other  Star  men  standing  near,  silently  watch 
ing.  He  smiled  wanly. 

"Les  ain't  comin'  around,  I  reckon,"  he  said. 

"Les  is  about  due,"  said  a  Star  man  solemnly. 

Whitman's  smile  grew  regretful.  "Looked  that 
way  to  me,"  he  said.  "Him  goin'  that  way  will  be 
a  heap  better — for  his  mother.  You  boys  will  let 
him — "  He  paused,  to  note  the  silence  that  greeted 
his  uncompleted  question,  and  at  the  surprised 
glances  that  met  his. 

"I  reckon  you  boys  did  n't  know  Les  had  a 
mother,"  he  said.  And  now  his  gaze  rested  upon 


WEST!  271 

Betty  Lawson,  who  had  dismounted  and  had  ap 
proached  near  enough  to  hear  him. 

"Les  had  a  mother,  all  right,"  he  added,  his  gaze 
on  Betty's  face;  "only  Les  was  some  stubborn  an' 
jealous,  an'  would  n't  talk  much  about  her.  His 
mother  is  my  mother — Les  bein'  my  half-brother. 
Les  is  pretty  badly  hurt,  Betty,"  he  said.  "He  '11 
die,  anyway.  Mother  would  n't  want  him  hung. 
I  reckon  if  you  'd  bring  him  around  a  little  he  'd 
talk.  He  was  tryin'  to,  all  the  way  back." 

"Who  shot  you,  Ben?" 

This  was  Betty.  She  had  pushed  Brannon  away 
and  was  tenderly  smoothing  Whitman's  forehead. 

"Satan  Lattimer,"  answered  Whitman.  "Betty/* 
he  whispered,  "I  reckon  you  'd  better  have  these 
boys  go  after  Miss  Hamilton.  Lattimer  's  got  her. 
I  trailed  him  as  far  as  that  big  ledge  just  south  of 
Boskin's  Ford.  That 's  where  he  downed  me.  I 
reckon  I  was  a  little  slow."  His  cheeks  flushed 
faintly  and  he  went  on,  still  in  a  whisper : 

"He  must  have  told  Miss  Hamilton  he  was  takin' 
her  to  Laskar;  he  tried  to  make  me  swallow  that, 
too.  But  he  was  two  miles  off  the  Laskar  trail, 
Betty ;  an'  he  's  takin'  her  to  Panya  Cache,  where 
his  gang  of  outlaws  holes  up." 

He  noted  Betty's  violent  start,  correctly  divined 
the  reason  for  it,  smiled,  and  resumed  haltingly: 


272  WEST ! 

"A  lot  of  folks  will  be  surprised.  I  ain't  guess- 
in'  none.  Satan  Lattimer  's  the  boss  of  the  gang 
that  has  been  stealin'  hosses  around  here.  Les  be 
longed  to  the  gang.  Lattimer  got  some  sort  of 
hold  on  him,  I  reckon.  I  've  knowed  for  a  long 
time  what  Lattimer  is,  but  I  did  n't  say  anything 
for  fear  mother  would  get  wind  of  it.  It  would 
have  hurt  her  bad  to  know  that  Les  had  gone  wrong 
— so  far. 

"An'  Lattimer  fooled  her;  she  set  great  store  by 
him — thinkin'  he  was  straight."  He  drew  a  deep 
breath;  his  voice  grew  weaker. 

"Tell  Brannon,"  he  said  faintly.  "He'll  know 
where  Panya  Cache  is.  He  's  the  only  man  in  the 
country  Lattimer  's  afraid  of;  he  's  the  only  man  in 
these  parts  that  can  sling  a  gun  faster  than  Satan. 
He  '11  have  to — to — hurry,  or  Lattimer  will — " 

Whitman's   eyes  closed. 

Betty  stood  erect  beside  him.  Whitman's  revela 
tions  had  shocked  her,  despite  her  preconceived  con 
viction  of  Lattimer's  criminal  character,  of  his  ruth- 
lessness,  and  of  his  reckless  unconcern  for  the  rules 
of  fairness.  She  remembered  that  she  had  warned 
Josephine  about  Lattimer,  and  it  seemed  Josephine 
had  deliberately  disregarded  the  warning. 

For  an  instant  Betty  entertained  a  vindictive 
thought,  which  was  that  Jo  was  being  repaid  for  her 
obstinacy.  And  instantly  came  the  seductive  inner 


WEST !  273 

voice  of  the  tempter,  telling  her  that  no  one  need 
know  where  Lattimer  was  taking  Jo.  For  no  one 
beside  herself  had  heard  Whitman's  whispering — 

In  the  next  instant  Betty  was  facing  Brannon. 
A  crimson  stain  in  her  cheeks — the  visible  sign  of 
the  shame  she  felt  because  she  had  permitted  a 
jealous  impulse  to  take  form  in  her  mind — was 
accentuated  by  the  paleness  of  her  lips. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "Satan  Lattimer  is  taking 
Jo  to  Panya  Cache  against  her  will.  Whitman  just 
told  me.  Lattimer  shot  Whitman  when  Whitman 
tried  to  get  Jo  away  from  him.  If  you  go  right 
away  you  can  catch  him  before  he  reaches  the  cache. 
Save  her,  Brannon!" 

She  felt  Brannon's  hands  upon  her  arms,  the 
fingers  like  steel  bands  constricting  with  terrific 
pressure.  She  could  feel  the  man's  muscles  con 
tract  into  rigid  knots  as  he  held  her,  turning  her 
so  that  he  might  look  into  her  eyes.  His  own  were 
a-light  with  a  cold  fire  that  chilled  and  awed  her; 
for  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him  she 
saw  passion  in  them. 

"What  trail  did  Lattimer  take?" 

Brannon's  voice  was  cold,  calm,  a  curiou:  con 
trast  to  the  passion  in  his  eyes. 

Betty  told  him. 

For   an    instant    longer   he    held    her,    his    ~~/:: 
searching   hers.     Strange   little    pin-points    of 


274  WEST ! 

miration  flickered  at  her.  Then  he  released  her 
and  ran  to  his  horse.  He  mounted  with  the  black 
already  running,  paying  no  attention  to  the  shouts 
of  Meeder  and  the  others. 

Nor  did  Betty  heed  the  shouts  of  the  men.  She 
was  watching  the  black  horse  and  its  rider  as  they 
raced  over  the  level;  the  horse  running  like  a 
feather  sailing  upon  a  wind. 

Betty  watched  horse  and  rider  sweep  over  the 
broken,  hill-dotted  country  between  the  house 
and  the  long  slope  opposite  Boskin's  Ford — a  dis 
tance  of  several  miles;  she  saw  them  later,  dwarfed 
to  toy-like  proportions,  moving  jerkily  upward  to 
ward  the  ledge  upon  which  Whitman  had  encoun 
tered  Lattimer  during  the  night.  And  when  horse 
and  rider  vanished  over  the  crest  of  the  long  slope 
she  turned  to  see  Cole  Meeder  standing  at  her  elbow. 

"What 's  got  into  the  cuss  ?"  demanded  Meeder, 
wonderingly. 

Betty  told  him  and  he  laughed  grimly. 

"I  reckon  we  '11  be  goin'  that  way,  too,"  he 
said.  "Some  of  us,  that  is.  I  'm  leavin'  a  couple 
of  the  boys  here  with  you.  Whitman  will  come 
around  all  right,  I  reckon.  Artwrell  has  cashed  in. 
But  he  talked  first.  Said  he  killed  Callahan.  He 
hid  in  the  stable  afterward;  an'  Miss  Hamilton 
brought  him  over  here — an'  stayed  here,  nursin' 
him!" 


CHAPTER     XXX 

JOSEPHINE'S  disillusionment  had  come  with 
appalling  suddenness,  and  the  shock  was  so  great 
that  she  scarcely  realized  that  Ben  Whitman  had  been 
shot — killed;  and  that  his  body,  pitifully  inert,  was 
lying  near  her.  She  stared  at  the  tall,  lax  figure, 
lying  face  down  on  the  ledge;  she  saw  Lattimer 
standing  over  it,  the  smoking  pistol  in  hand;  she 
was  aware  that  Les  Artwell  was  stretched  on  his 
back  beside  his  horse;  and  she  heard  Lattimer's 
words  when  he  finally  walked  toward  her. 

But  she  could  not  convince  herself  that  the  tragedy 
really  had  occurred.  Lattimer,  the  figures  of  the 
two  men  on  the  ledge,  the  horses,  the  basin,  the 
peaceful  moon  swimming  in  the  velvet-blue  sky, 
seemed  unreal,  grotesque,  like  the  settings  of  a 
drama  of  dreams. 

Because  this  thing  had  never  happened  to  her 
before,  she  felt  that  it  could  not  happen;  that  one 
man  would  not  dare  to  shoot  down  another  man  in 
so  brutal  a  fashion.  It  was  impossible,  incredible! 
And  yet  there  was  Whitman,  face  down  on  the 
ledge,  almost  at  her  feet,  murdered  while  she  had 
looked  on !  On  the  ledge  also  were  Lattimer,  Les 

275 


276  WEST ! 

Artwell,  and  the  horses;  below  her,  still  beautiful, 
calmly  silent,  was  the  basin;  above  her  swam  the 
moon,  serenely  radiant. 

The  change  she  sensed  had  come  to  her  alone ;  and 
suddenly  she  understood.  She  had  visioned  ideals 
and  had  tried  to  form  them  out  of  material  already 
fashioned  by  the  Creator.  She  had  tried,  but  she 
had  not  made  them  over.  She  was  a  wilful,  self- 
deluded  girl  who  would  not  listen  to  the  words 
of  experience. 

Betty  had  told  her;  had  warned  her  about  Latti- 
mer.  Brannon  had  tried  to  show  her  in  a  practical 
manner  that  her  foolish  principles  were  not  deep 
enough,  nor  sound  enough,  to  be  applicable  to  a 
country  in  which  the  law  was  not  firmly  established. 
Brannon,  despite  his  steel-like  inflexibility  and  his 
thinly  concealed  contempt  of  her,  had  really  tried 
to  be  kind  to  her ! 

Brannon  had  saved  her  from  Denver;  Betty 
had  warned  her  that  Lattimer  was  ruthless;  that 
he  would  not  hesitate  to  carry  a  woman  into  the 
mountains !  She  remembered  how  she  had  mentally 
scoffed  at  Betty's  remark,  thinking  Betty  was  merely 
attempting  to  impress  her  with  the  picturesque  char 
acter  of  the  country's  inhabitants. 

Betty  had  merely  stated  the  exact  truth!  Latti 
mer  was  at  this  moment  giving  her  a  practical 


WEST!  277 

demonstration  of  his  ruthlessness,  and  was  intent 
upon  carrying  her  away  to  the  mountains ! 

Upon  the  day  she  had  quarreled  with  Betty  be 
cause  she  suspected  Betty  of  doubting  her  word 
concerning  the  length  of  her  stay  at  the  Whitman 
cabin,  she  had  felt  the  first  pulse-beat  of  her  new 
independence;  she  had  become  Western  and  had 
responded  to  the  primitive  impulses  that  had  long 
been  latent  in  her  nature.  She  had  shaken  off  the 
shackles  of  an  effete  and  decadent  environment;  she 
had  rushed  headlong  back  to  nature,  to  be  unham 
pered  by  narrow  conventions. 

Disillusionment  was  complete,  if  painful.  As 
she  stood  on  the  ledge  watching  Lattimer,  who  had 
halted  and  was  gazing  at  her  speculatively,  she  was 
aware  that  nature  had  never  intended  her  for  this 
sort  of  an  existence.  Her  courage  was  too  frail; 
she  lacked  the  mental  ruggedness  and  the  moral 
sturdiness  to  fight  her  obstinate  impulses,  to  confess 
herself  in  the  wrong.  She  had  been  wrong  all 
the  time,  but  had  not  had  the  courage  to  admit  it, 
even  to  herself. 

In  giving  free  rein  to  the  primitive  inclinations 
she  had  felt  she  merely  had  been  attempting  to 
dramatize  her  imagination ;  she  had  sought  person 
ally  to  enact  a  role  that  had  been  created  in  her  mind 
by  the  conviction  that  her  own  yearning  for  the 


278  WEST ! 

romance  of  elemental  life  must  inevitably  fit  her 
for  it.  It  was  the  hunger  that  assails  one  who 
delves  deeply  into  the  printed  page  of  adventure. 

But  she  had  failed.  She  had  been  obstinately  wil 
ful;  she  had  antagonized  Betty;  she  had  opposed 
Brannon;  she  had  fooled  herself  when  she  thought 
she  had  been  fooling  others.  And  now  she  had 
been  tricked  by  a  beast! 

She  knew  now  that  Lattimer  was  a  beast.  As 
he  stood  watching  her  she  saw  his  lips  curve  into  a 
smile;  a  smile  which  seemed  to  be  articulate  with 
the  knowledge  that  she  had  thought  the  thing  out 
and  was  beginning  to  realize  that  she  was  lost. 

Her  knees  knocked  together  as  she  watched  Latti 
mer;  she  thought  she  must  surely  faint  when  he 
stepped  toward  her,  a  smiling  triumph  in  his  eyes. 

"We  've  got  quite  a  ride  before  us,  Miss  Hamil 
ton,"  he  repeated. 

"I  won't  ride  a  step  farther  with  you!"  she  de 
clared.  She  was  astonished  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  at  the  shrill  break  in  it,  at  the  piercing  note 
of  terror  that  had  got  into  it  despite  her  conviction 
that  she  was  not  afraid  of  Lattimer  and  that  at 
this  minute  she  merely  loathed  him  because  of  what 
he  had  done  to  Whitman  and  because  he  was  what 
she  knew  him  to  be. 

He  laughed  deep  in  his  throat  and  stepped  quickly 
toward  her.  She  turned,  and  in  an  effort  to  evade 


WEST !  279 

him  swung  against  one  of  the  horses,  which  reared 
and  snapped  at  her.  Before  she  could  turn  in  an 
other  direction  Lattimer's  hands  were  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  his  face  was  close  to  hers.  He  held 
her  in  a  grip  that,  she  felt,  must  crush  her. 

She  cried  out  sharply  and  he  released  her,  step 
ping  back  a  pace  and  regarding  her  with  a  steady, 
amused  smile. 

"I  reckon  you  '11  ride  with  me,  Jo,"  he  said  with 
easy  familiarity,  with  a  smooth,  matter-of-fact  note 
in  his  voice.  "You  're  not  such  a  fool  as  to  imagine 
that  when  I  've  got  you  this  far  I  '11  let  you  off. 
Ben  Whitman  ought  to  have  known  that — the  fool !" 

"You  killed  him  for — for  that?"  she  questioned. 
"Ben  knew — he  knew  you — you  were  not  going  to 
Laskar?" 

"That  was  mighty  plain  to  Ben,"  he  smiled. 

Lattimer's  answer,  the  light  in  his  eyes,  con 
firmed  Whitman's  charge  that  Lattimer  intended  to 
take  her  to  some  mysterious  place  called  Panya 
Cache.  A  trembling  weakness  came  upon  her;  a 
sudden,  ungovernable  grief  over  the  contemplation 
of  her  folly.  She  pressed  her  hands  tightly  over  her 
eyes  and  sobbed  wildly,  while  Lattimer  stood  at  a 
little  distance  watching  her. 

She  was  astonished  when  the  tears  ceased  to  come, 
when  a  cold  rage  succeeded  the  emotional  breakdown. 
She  could  not  explain  the  phenomenon;  she  did  not 


28o  WEST ! 

attempt  to.  She  was  merely  conscious  that  she  sud 
denly  felt  capable  of  enduring  stoically  the  conse 
quences  of  her  obstinacy.  She  uncovered  her  eyes 
and  looked  defiantly  at  him. 

"Suppose  I  refuse  to  ride,  Lattimer?" 

"I  '11  carry  you,"  he  said.  "You  're  over  it,  eh?" 
he  added  laughing.  "That 's  sensible.  You  see, 
when  I  want  a  thing  I  use  the  most  direct  means 
of  getting  it.  I  've  wanted  you  from  the  day  I 
heard  Brannon  had  cottoned  up  to  you ! 

"There  's  always  been  a  sort  of  jealousy  in  my 
heart  for  Brannon.  I  believe  he  's  the  only  man 
in  the  world  I  ever  envied.  He  's  a  real  man  from 
any  direction  you  look  at  him.  He 's  the  only 
man  I  ever  met  who  made  me  feel  that  in  a  fight 
I  'd  come  out  second-best.  That  conviction  has 
always  bothered  me.  But  there  's  no  use  in  denying 
it.  Whenever  Brannon  goes  for  his  gun  it 's  time 
to  requisition  the  mourners.  I  'd  have  killed  him 
long  ago  if  I  had  n't  been  afraid  to  take  the  chance. 

"Now  you  see,  recognizing  that  I  have  n't  a  chance 
with  Brannon  with  a  gun  in  my  hand,  and  hating 
him  as  I  do,  I  've  got  to  use  other  methods  to  best 
him,  to  make  him  squirm.  That 's  the  reason  why 
I  'm  taking  you  to  Panya  Cache — because  Brannon 
likes  you.  The  other  reason  is  that  I  like  you,  my 
self. 

"You  've  been  pretty  high-handed  with  Brannon, 


WEST!  281 

according  to  what  I  hear.  You  tried  to  make  a  fool 
of  him  in  front  of  Denver;  you  made  him  look  like 
a  locoed  yearling  when  you  got  Artwell  away  from 
him.  Did  you  know  that  after  you  left  my  place 
the  morning  you  brought  Artwell  over  Brannon 
brought  back  the  horse  Artwell  rode  the  night  he 
killed  Callahan  ?  Did  you  know  that  on  his  way  to 
bring  my  horse  back  he  ran  into  Billy,  the  horse 
Artwell  rode  when  you  brought  him  to  my  place? 
And  do  you  know  that  while  you  were  at  my  house 
that  morning  you  dropped  a  handkerchief  and  that 
Brannon  saw  it  ?  Brannon  has  been  wise  to  me  for 
some  time.  He  warned  me.  He  knows — " 

"Artwell  killed  Callahan?" 

It  had  taken  her  many  seconds  to  comprehend 
the  significance  of  Lattimer's,  to  her,  startling  revela 
tion.  She  stood  silent  afterward,  searching  Latti 
mer's  face,  noting  his  keen  enjoyment  of  her  aston 
ishment;  convinced  by  it  that  he  was  telling  the 
truth. 

"Artwell  killed  Callahan — and  I  helped  him," 
she  said  finally,  shuddering.  "He  killed  Callahan, 
and  I  thought  Brannon  did  it.  Why,"  she  went  on, 
a  startled,  wondering  light  in  her  eyes,  her  voice 
falling  to  a  whisper;  "why,  the  morning  I  brought 
Artwell  to  your  place  you  told  me  Brannon  claimed 
to  have  shot  Callahan.  If  he  really  said  that  he 
must  have  thought  I  shot  Callahan !" 


282  WEST ! 

"That's  what  he  did,"  said  Lattimer.  "He 
thought  so  then.  Later  he  must  have  suspected  the 
truth." 

Remorse,  intensified  by  a  realization  of  her  com 
plete  helplessness,  overwhelmed  her.  Her  self-con 
trol  deserted  her;  she  cringed  back  from  Lattimer 
and  sobbed  again  passionately. 

This  last  revelation,  coming  so  quickly  after  her 
discovery  of  Lattimer's  real  character,  completely 
unnerved  her.  She  was  aware  of  Lattimer's  arms, 
clasped  tightly  around  her,  and  she  fought  him,  even 
while  she  knew  she  was  hopelessly  lost.  She  heard 
him  speaking  to  her  gruffly;  felt  herself  being  lifted 
into  a  saddle.  And  then,  clinging  desperately  to 
the  high  horn,  she  was  borne  upward. 


CHAPTER     XXXI 

THE  black's  first  impetuous  rush  carried  him 
over  the  level  swiftly.  His  speed  diminished 
as  he  swept  around  the  bases  of  some  low  hills  where 
rocks  from  the  surrounding  slopes,  loosened  by  the 
elements,  had  rolled  down  and  now  littered  the  trail ; 
he  climbed  a  precipitous  slope  with  the  agility  of  a 
cat ;  straightened  up  for  a  long  run  along  the  crest  of 
a  ridge;  dropped  into  a  saccaton  flat  with  sickening 
suddenness,  went  up  another  slope  with  a  rushing 
clatter,  and  sped  across  another  level  to  the  base  of 
the  big  hill  upon  which  the  night  before  Josephine 
had  gazed  down  into  the  big  basin. 

Brannon  dismounted  at  the  base  of  the  hill,  slipped 
the  bridle-rein  over  the  black's  head,  and  began  the 
upward  climb.  It  was  now  well  toward  noon,  and 
though  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  the  exact  hour 
in  which  Whitman  had  been  shot,  he  reasoned  that 
Ben  must  have  consumed  much  time  in  reaching 
the  Lazy  L  and  that  Lattimer  would  have  several 
hours'  start. 

And  yet  Brannon  expected  to  overtake  him  long 
before  he  could  reach  Panya  Cache,  for  the  cache 
was  a  hundred  miles  south,  the  trail  was  difficult  in 

283 


284  WEST ! 

spots,  and  Lattimer  would  be  hampered  by  Josephine, 
also  Lattimer  would  undoubtedly  take  his  time,  not 
anticipating  that  he  would  be  followed,  for  he  would 
not  be  aware  that  Cole  Meeder,  the  other  Star  men, 
and  Brannon  had  visited  the  Lazy  L;  and  he  must 
have  thought  his  bullet  had  killed  Whitman  or, 
knowing  Whitman  had  divined  his  destination — as 
Whitman  had  proved  by  telling  Betty — he  would 
have  made  certain  of  the  man's  death.  Artwell, 
Brannon  concluded,  must  have  been  close  to  death 
when  Lattimer  left  him,  so  close  that  Lattimer  had 
considered  him  a  negligible  factor. 

The  climb  to  the  top  of  the  hill  was  long  and  ardu 
ous  ;  and  Brannon  halted  there  for  a  time  to  breathe 
the  black  horse  and  to  recover  his  own  wind.  Then 
he  mounted,  descended  sharply  to  a  ravine,  crossed 
it,  reached  a  mesa,  and  headed  toward  a  distant  rise 
that  marked  the  southern  rim  of  the  big  basin. 

Twice  before  Brannon  had  ridden  this  trail  to 
Panya  Cache.  It  had  been  in  the  days  before  the 
coming  of  Satan  Lattimer  to  the  big  basin,  when  at 
the  command  of  Betty's  father  he  had  broken  up  a 
band  of  rustlers  who  had  operated  in  the  section. 
The  rustlers  had  worked  northward  from  Panya, 
and  Brannon's  activities  had  taken  him  twice  to  the 
rendezvous  before  the  band  had  been  routed.  In 
that  campaign  he  had  been  assisted  by  nearly  all  of 
the  cattle-men  in  the  basin,  and  by  various  others 


WEST !  285 

who  had  been  victims  of  the  depredations  of  the 
outlaws. 

Brannon,  therefore,  knew  the  trail.  As  for  that 
he  would  have  had  little  difficulty  in  following  Latti- 
mer  and  Josephine,  for  the  record  of  their  passing 
could  be  read  plainly  in  the  soft  stretches  of  the 
trail. 

There  were  two  horses,  which  fact  indicated  that 
Lattimer  was  not  carrying  the  girl. 

Brannon  rode  fast  but  carefully.  By  conserving 
the  black's  strength  he  might  almost  close  the  gap 
between  himself  and  Lattimer  during  the  day,  and 
be  able  to  make  a  final  dash  after  nightfall  if  the 
race  lasted  that  long.  For  even  if  Lattimer  sus 
pected  he  would  be  followed,  he  would  have  to  per 
mit  Josephine  to  rest  when  darkness  came ;  or  he 
would  have  to  carry  her,  which  action  would  be 
fatal  to  speed. 

Brannon  made  good  time  after  he  got  out  of  the 
basin.  For  several  miles  he  rode  across  a  mesa, 
level,  grass-covered,  and  beautiful,  though  desolate 
as  the  calm  surface  of  a  sunlit  ocean. 

Reaching  the  edge  of  the  mesa  he  paused  momen 
tarily  to  search  for  the  trail.  Finding  it,  he  urged 
the  black  down  the  crumbling  channel  of  a  washout 
to  the  razor-back  crest  of  a  rock  ridge.  Just  before 
putting  his  horse  to  the  downward  slope  of  the 
ridge  he  halted,  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 


286  WEST ! 

and  scrutinized  the  country  ahead  of  him  and  at 
his  right  and  left. 

There  was  an  abrupt  downward  trend  to  the  trail. 
Below  him  spread  a  wide  section  of  country. 
Ridges,  giant  hills,  mammoth  plateaus,  rivers,  two 
mountain  ranges  with  serrated  peaks,  a  divide,  a 
mighty  plain — all  were  distinct  in  detail,  though  so 
dwarfed  in  size  by  the  distance  from  which  he  viewed 
them  that  they  seemed  insignificant. 

A  haze  of  many  colors  lay  like  a  mantle  over 
the  vast  section.  Through  the  veil  gleamed  two 
barren  peaks  of  the  mountains.  A  deep  canyon 
showed  darkly  purple.  The  waters  of  the  rivers 
shimmered  like  liquid  silver  through  rose-tinted 
gauze.  Miles  away  the  rugged  walls  of  buttes  and 
the  uncompromising  bulks  of  bastioned  hills  stood, 
enwrapped  in  the  mystery  that  had  swathed  them 
since  the  hour  of  creation.  Over  it  all  was  a 
slumberous  silence  in  which  there  was  no  sugges 
tion  of  life  or  movement. 

It  was  noon  before  Brannon  in  his  downward  ride 
reached  the  broad  shoulder  of  a  mountain.  About 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  was  riding  a  narrow 
ledge  through  a  valley,  fully  thirty  miles  from  the 
spot  on  the  edge  of  the  mesa  where  he  had  halted 
to  view  the  country. 

An  hour  later  he  was  again  climbing  upward,  over 
the  irregular  slopes  and  ledges  of  an  upland.  An- 


WEST !  287 

other  hour,  and  he  had  reached  the  crest  of  the  long 
slope  and  was  standing  beside  the  black  horse,  peer 
ing  southward,  the  sun  almost  at  his  back. 

In  the  distance,  where  a  ridge  loomed  high  above 
a  level,  he  detected  movement.  He  waited,  grimly 
patient,  until  he  saw  two  tiny  blots  slowly  taking 
form  on  the  ridge — two  horses  with  riders  moving 
upward  until  they  became  clearly  outlined  on  the 
horizon. 

The  figures  were  not  more  than  two  or  three 
miles  away. 

Brannon  swung  into  the  saddle,  patted  the  black's 
moist  flanks,  and  spoke  grimly  to  him : 

"I  reckon  we've  got  them,  Nigger!" 

Then  he  set  out  in  pursuit  of  the  distant  riders; 
the  black  horse  whinnying  and  tossing  its  head  in 
apparent  satisfaction,  as  though  the  occasion  were 
one  of  ordinary  significance. 


CHAPTER     XXXII 

UNACCUSTOMED  to  long  rides,  exhausted 
by  the  strain  of  a  continued  contemplation  of 
the  hazards  of  the  trail  she  had  been  forced  to  ride, 
and  confronted  by  a  hopeless  future,  Josephine 
sobbed  despairingly  as  her  horse  slid  down  the  slope 
of  a  ridge  to  a  grass  level. 

The  last  bulwark  of  her  courage  had  given  way. 
On  the  long,  tiresome  ride  she  had  been  sustained 
by  a  secret  hope  that  some  one — Brannon,  Betty, 
somebody — would  discover  her  disappearance  and 
come  to  her  rescue.  She  felt  she  did  not  deserve  any 
consideration  or  pity  or  sympathy  from  either 
Brannon  or  Betty;  and  she  felt  there  was  no  pos 
sibility  of  their  knowing  what  had  happened  to  her, 
because  she  had  been  so  secretive.  Still  she  had 
hoped — until  now. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  ridden  into  the  very 
heart  of  desolation,  from  which  there  could  be  no 
possibility  of  rescue. 

In  the  yawning  gulf  of  distance  that  stretched 
before  here  there  was  no  sign  of  life;  nothing  but 
hills  and  valleys  and  levels  and  silence  and  a  sky  that 
mocked  her  with  its  calm  serenity.  The  immutable 

288 


WEST!  289 

fixity  of  the  somber  mountains  on  the  remote  hori 
zon  terrified  her — they  seemed  so  aware  of  her 
precarious  predicament  and  so  coldly  indifferent. 
They  seemed  sentient,  watchful,  knowing;  it  was  as 
though  they  comprehended  and  would  not  interfere. 

Everything  she  saw  gave  her  that  impression. 
Their  progress  had  not  been  impeded.  An  accident, 
any  sort  of  an  accident  that  would  have  delayed  them 
would  have  been  welcomed  by  her;  she  would  have 
seized  upon  it  as  an  omen  of  good.  She  believed 
she  would  have  blessed  a  rock  that  would  have 
broken  a  leg  of  one  of  the  horses. 

But  nothing  had  happened.  They  had  not  ridden 
fast,  but  they  had  been  always  moving,  and  she 
knew  they  were  many  miles  from  the  ledge  where 
Ben  Whitman  had  been  shot. 

Lattimer  had  said  little  to  her.  When  she  had 
recovered  from  her  weakness  soon  after  Lattimer 
had  placed  her  in  the  saddle,  she  became  aware  that 
Lattimer  was  leading  her  horse  and  that  her  feet  had 
been  lashed  to  the  stirrups.  Later,  though  after 
they  had  traveled  several  miles,  Lattimer  had  re 
leased  her  feet,  his  significant  smile  assuring  her 
that  he  knew  she  would  not  attempt  to  return  over 
the  back  trail  alone. 

Thereafter  she  herself  had  guided  the  horse. 

And  now  as  she  directed  it  down  the  slope  of  the 
ridge,  her  hopes  died  and  she  yielded  to  tears. 


290  WEST ! 

Lattimer  rode  close  and  placed  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Tired,  eh?"   he  said. 

He  was  deliberately  mocking  her,  or  did  not 
understand.  She  did  not  know  which.  Nor  did 
she  care.  She  did  not  care  what  happened  to  her 
now. 

And  so  she  made  no  objection  when  Lattimer 
helped  her  down  from  the  horse,  telling  her  in  a 
low  voice  that  they  wTould  rest  for  a  time. 

When  he  left  her  to  care  for  the  horses,  she 
dropped  wearily  into  the  long  gramma  grass  at  her 
feet  and  sat  there,  staring  dully  at  her  surroundings. 

The  grass  level  was  small.  At  her  right  and 
left  were  lava-beds,  worn  and  polished  by  the  sand 
winds  of  ages.  Back  of  her  was  the  ridge  over 
which  she  had  just  ridden;  not  more  than  a  few 
hundred  feet  in  front  of  her  rose  the  ragged  sides 
of  a  draw,  the  deep  sand  of  its  center  lying  dead 
and  smooth.  Beyond  was  desolation. 

How  long  she  sat  in  the  grass  communing  with 
her  despair  she  did  not  know.  Not  long  probably, 
for  when  she  again  looked  at  Lattimer  he  had  not 
removed  the  saddle  he  had  been  working  at  when 
she  had  turned  to  stare  at  the  country. 

She  saw  Lattimer  start;  heard  him  exclaim 
sharply.  Following  the  direction  of  his  gaze  she 
saw  a  horseman  come  into  view  from  the  southern 


WEST!  291 

side  of  the  draw  and  ride  rapidly  toward  them. 

It  was  Denver! 

He  had  appeared,  it  seemed,  like  an  apparition. 
But  she  well  knew  that  he  might  have  been  riding 
toward  them  for  hours  without  their  being  aware 
of  him;  for  there  were  hills  and  depressions  and 
corrugations  and  gullies  that  one  might  take  ad 
vantage  of  if  one  were  inclined  to  be  secretive; 
and  she  felt  that  Denver  would  not  have  shown 
himself,  conceding  he  had  seen  them,  until  he  had 
become  reasonably  certain  of  their  identity.  That 
sort  of  thing  would  be  characteristic  of  the  man. 

Lattimer  hailed  Denver  heartily.  But  Denver 
did  not  reply  in  kind.  He  jumped  his  horse  through 
the  sand  draw,  raced  it  across  the  little  level,  and 
brought  it  to  a  dizzying,  sliding  halt  within  a  few 
feet  of  Lattimer.  His  face  was  set  grimly ;  his  eyes 
were  blazing  with  excitement. 

"Who's  trailin'  you,  Lattimer?"  he  demanded 
huskily. 

Watching  Lattimer,  Josephine  saw  his  face  change 
color.  It  was  evident  that  his  thoughts  had  been 
upon  the  possibility  of  pursuit,  for  instead  of  re 
plying  to  Denver  he  ran  to  the  ridge  over  which 
they  had  ridden  a  few  minutes  before,  threw  him 
self  flat,  and  peered  over  its  crest.  He  remained 
there  only  an  instant;  then  he  ran  back  to  where 
Denver  sat  on  his  horse. 


292  WEST! 

"Brannon!" 

There  was  fear  in  the  exclamation ;  fear  was  lying 
naked  in  Lattimer's  eyes.  Denver's  face  whitened 
beneath  the  deep  tan  and  the  alkali  dust  upon  it. 

"Hell's  fire !"  he  blurted.     "We  're  in  for  it !" 

At  the  word  "Brannon,"  Josephine  had  got  to 
her  feet.  She  stood  now,  tingling  with  a  wild  ex 
ultation;  breathless  with  gratitude  inexpressible. 

"Brannon !"  she  heard  herself  saying,  in  a  voice 
that  she  did  not  recognize. 

Heedless  of  Lattimer's  shout  and  Denver's  vio 
lent  profanity,  she  started  to  run  toward  the  ridge, 
forgetting  everything  but  the  fact  that  Brannon 
was  coming,  that  rescue  was  at  hand. 

She  had  gone  only  a  few  steps  when  she  felt 
Lattimer's  big  arms  around  her.  She  was  swept 
off  her  feet,  lifted,  and  borne  rapidly  away  from 
the  ridge  toward  the  draw  through  which  Denver 
had  appeared. 

She  tried  to  cry  out,  but  the  sound  was  stifled 
when  Lattimer  pressed  her  face  tightly  against 
his  shoulder.  It  seemed  only  an  instant  from  the 
time  she  started  toward  the  ridge  until  she  was 
being  set  down  on  her  feet  at  the  far  side  of  the 
draw. 

Denver  was  already  there.  She  saw  him  ride 
his  horse  back  of  the  draw,  out  of  sight  from  the 
direction  of  the  ridge;  saw  him  lead  it  into  a 


WEST !  293 

depression,  trail  the  reins  over  its  head,  and  loop 
them  around  a  rock. 

Then  Denver  pulled  a  rifle  from  a  holster  on 
the  saddle-skirt,  ran  to  the  sloping  side  of  the  draw, 
and  began  to  clamber  upward.  He  gained  the  top, 
threw  himself  flat  behind  a  boulder  that  crowned 
the  edge  of  the  draw,  and  stuck  the  muzzle  of  the 
rifle  through  some  screening  weeds  at  the  side  of 
the  rock. 

Josephine  had  seen  a  significant  glance  pass  be 
tween  Lattimer  and  Denver  as  Denver  began  his 
climb  to  the  crest  of  the  draw,  and  she  divined 
that  somehow  they  had  agreed  upon  a  plan  that 
boded  ill  for  Brannon. 

She  looked  at  Lattimer ;  cringed  from  the  smiling, 
malicious  devil  in  his  eyes;  and  linked  his  present 
demeanor  with  the  sinister  preparations  that  had 
been  carried  on  before  her  eyes. 

"Why — why,"  she  cried,  horrified,  "you  mean 
to  shoot  Brannon!" 

"Denver  will  down  him  the  minute  he  comes 
in  sight  over  the  ridge,"  said  Lattimer. 

He  essayed  to  draw  her  closer,  and  feeling  her 
passive  in  his  arms  he  sought  to  shift  his  grasp. 
She  suddenly  twisted  her  body,  squirming  and  writh- 
ign  until  she  got  her  hands  against  his  chest.  He 
lost  the  grip  of  one  hand  because  of  her  desperate 
energy;  sought  to  regain  it  and  was  off  balance 


294  WEST! 

for  a  single  instant.  Her  muscles,  acting  in  accord 
with  her  frenzied  thoughts,  were  quick  to  use  the 
opportunity  at  hand.  She  shoved  him  viciously, 
so  that  he  went  down  awkwardly  on  hands  and  knees. 

Cursing,  he  threw  himself  at  her,  his  clutching 
fingers  just  missing  the  hem  of  her  skirts  as  she 
fled. 

Twice  she  stumbled  as  she  ran,  the  deep  sand  of 
the  draw  dragging  at  her  feet;  and  once  as  she 
reached  the  edge  of  the  grass  level  she  fell.  But 
she  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  ran  onward  toward  the 
crest  of  the  ridge  expecting  each  instant  to  feel 
the  deadening  impact  of  a  bullet  from  Denver's 
rifle,  or  the  brutal  grasp  of  Lattimer's  hands  at 
her  throat. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  She  reached 
the  base  of  the  ridge,  clambered  up,  using  the  roots 
of  bunch-grass  that  grew  on  the  slope  where  the 
ascent  was  steepest;  going  to  her  knees  once  when 
she  stumbled  over  a  rock  whose  sharp  edge  came  in 
contact  with  her  ankle;  but  finally  achieving  the 
crest,  where  she  stood,  her  breath  sobbing  in  her 
throat,  to  see  Brannon,  now  not  more  than  a  few 
hundred  feet  distant  coming  toward  her,  his  horse 
in  a  dead  run. 


CHAPTER     XXXIII 

FOR  one  wild  instant  as  she  stood  on  the  crest 
of  the  ridge  Josephine  considered  running  to 
meet  Brannon,  to  tell  him  that  Lattimer  and  Denver 
were  lying  in  wait  for  him,  and  to  urge  him  to  take 
her  on  his  horse.  But  she  did  not  yield  to  the 
impulse,  for  the  dangerous  stretches  of  the  back 
trail  were  vividly  pictured  in  her  mind — places 
where  a  horse  had  to  step  carefully,  where  progress 
was  won  by  risking  a  fall  into  the  dizzy  depths  of 
a  canyon — and  she  knew  that  Lattimer  and  Denver 
would  follow,  to  await  a  long-range  shot  when 
Brannon,  encumbered  by  her,  should  inevitably 
present  the  desired  target. 

She  dismissed  the  plan  from  her  mind  as  she 
went  slowly  down  the  opposite  side  of  the  ridge 
toward  Brannon.  Somehow  she  must  save  him. 

There  was  only  one  way;  and  of  course  she  must 
take  that.  Brannon  had  been  her  friend  all  along, 
trying  in  vain  to  make  her  see  her  folly — working 
subtly  with  her,  lest  he  offend  her;  and  she  could 
not  sacrifice  him  even  to  save  herself  from  the  de 
gradation  that  confronted  her.  So,  stilling  the  ter 
rible  tumult  within  her,  desperately  striving  for 

295 


296  WEST ! 

calmness,  lest  he  suspect;  that  he  might  not  doubt 
her  sincerity — she  contrived  to  smile  at  him  as  he 
pulled  the  black  horse  to  a  halt,  slid  out  of  the 
saddle,  and  confronted  her. 

She  saw  that  his  lips  were  set  stiffly;  that  his 
eyes,  even  while  they  searched  hers  as  though  seek 
ing  to  discover  what  had  befallen  her,  were  hard, 
cold,  and  alert;  and  that  his  gaze  swept  the  length 
of  the  ridge  suspiciously. 

"You  're  taking  long  rides  lately,"  he  said  with 
grim  humor. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  returned  calmly. 

She  felt  a  pang  of  remorse  over  the  sharp  look 
he  gave  her.  She  knew  his  senses  must  be  groping 
vainly  in  an  attempt  to  solve  the  riddle  of  her  un 
concern. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  shortly,  "what  do  you  mean? 
Ben  Whitman  told  us  Lattimer  had  kidnaped  you !" 

Though  her  pulses  leaped  with  joy  over  the  dis 
covery  that  Whitman  was  still  alive,  she  sternly 
kept  the  emotion  hidden  and  laughed  lightly. 

"So  Ben  didn't  die,  after  all!"  she  said.  "He 
followed  us  to  the  ledge,  back  there  on  a  mountain. 
He  seemed  to  think  I  was  doing  wrong.  He  even 
got  quarrelsome  and — and  Lattimer  had  to  shoot 
him." 

Brannon's  eyes  were  expressionless;  though  they 


WEST !  297 

seemed  to  bore  into  hers,  to  penetrate  until  she  felt 
he  must  be  reading  her  thoughts. 

"Seemed  to  think  you  were  doing  wrong!"  he 
repeated.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  retorted,  smiling. 
"There  seems  to  be  a  mistaken  impression  on  the 
part  of  my  friends  that  I  am  not  capable  of  making 
my  own  choice  in  the  matter  of  a  husband.  Is  that 
what  brought  you  here — a  fear  that  Lattimer  was 
running  away  with  me?" 

"That 's  what  I  thought,"  he  returned,  his  gaze 
unwavering. 

She  laughed,  lightly,  meeting  his  gaze  fairly, 
as  she  knew  she  must  if  she  was  to  deceive 
him. 

"I  came  with  Lattimer  of  my  own  accord,  Bran- 
non,"  she  said. 

His  gaze  still  held.  But  after  an  instant  there 
came  into  his  eyes  a  gleam  that  baffled  her. 

"Well,"  he  said  in  seeming  indifference,  "that 
is  a  matter  which  concerns  only  yourself.  Where  's 
Lattimer?" 

And  now,  despite  the  desperate  courage  that  had 
so  far  upheld  her,  she  shivered.  He  was  deter 
mined  to  face  Lattimer.  She  had  hoped  that  after 
she  had  told  him  she  had  voluntarily  gone  away 
with  Lattimer  he  would  consider  his  responsibility 


298  WEST ! 

ended,  and  return  the  way  he  had  come,  to  leave 
her  to  her  own  devices. 

But  she  saw  she  had  erred  in  thinking  he  would 
so  readily  leave  her.  She  felt  that  he  must  sus 
pect  her  of  lying  to  him,  or  that  he  had  something 
to  say  to  the  man  about  the  shooting  of  Ben  Whit 
man — though  if  Whitman  were  still  alive — 

She  had  forgotten  Les  Artwell !  Perhaps  Bran- 
non's  suspicions — mentioned  to  her  by  Lattimer — 
had  centered  upon  Lattimer  himself. 

If  that  was  why  he  was  determined  to  see  Latti 
mer,  she  might  prevent  him. 

She  placed  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "Les  Artwell  killed  Calla- 
han." 

"I  've  known  that  for  some  time,"  he  said  dryly, 
looking  sharply  at  her. 

"How?"  she  asked. 

"Hasn't  Lattimer  told  you?"  he  laughed.  "I 
took  Artwell's  horse  over  to  the  Lazy  L  the  morning 
you  dropped  your  handkerchief  beside  the  porch. 
I  see  Lattimer  has  told  you  about  that!"  he  said, 
with  broad  emphasis. 

"I  'm  having  a  talk  with  Lattimer,"  he  added. 

He  began  to  walk  toward  the  ridge. 

Aware  that  certain  death  awaited  him  there  she 
ran  swiftly  to  him,  linking  her  arm  with  his 
and  laughing  hysterically  to  keep  from  scream 
ing. 


WEST !  299 

She  knew  he  would  seek  Lattimer  despite  any 
thing  she  might  say  or  do.  There  was  a  gleam  of 
the  old  inflexibility  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes,  a  look 
that  made  her  think  of  something  mighty  and  deep, 
as  of  powerful  forces  moving  irresistibly  beneath 
the  calm  surface  of  a  sea. 

It  would  make  no  difference  to  him — the  knowl 
edge  that  Denver  and  Lattimer  were  awaiting  him 
with  hostile  intentions;  she  felt  that  if  she  should 
tell  him  that  Denver  was  lying  in  wait  for  him 
he  would  go  over  the  ridge  anyway. 

And  if  she  were  to  tell  him  now  that  she  had 
lied  to  save  him,  he  would  not  permit  the  sacrifice 
and  would  fight  for  her  to  the  end.  That,  she 
knew,  was  what  he  had  come  for. 

Arms  linked  together,  they  were  already  at  the 
base  of  the  ridge.  She  saw  him  watching  her  with 
covert  glances,  his  eyes  narrowed  speculatively,  as 
though  he  was  wondering  at  her  present  mood, 
which  contrasted  so  sharply  to  her  former  cold 
aloofness ;  but  she  pretended  not  to  notice  his 
glances;  and  when  they  started  up  the  slope  of  the 
ridge  she  got  in  front  of  him,  saying  gaily : 

"Ladies  first,  Brannon!" 

Then,  as  he  followed  her,  she  was  assailed  with  a 
fear  that  he  would 'be  too  far  behind  her  when  the 
crest  was  reached.  So  she  halted  and  smiled  over 
her  shoulder  at  him. 

"You  might  take  my  hand,  Brannon,"  she  said. 


300  WEST ! 

In  that  manner  they  reached  the  crest  of  the 
ridge. 

The  girl  paused,  caught  her  breath,  and  stood 
rigid  as  she  stared  at  the  draw. 

Lattimer  was  standing  near  the  far  side  of  the 
draw,  where  she  had  left  him.  It  seemed  he  had 
not  moved.  She  could  not  see  Denver;  but  her 
gaze  went  to  the  filmy  screen  of  weeds  near  the 
boulder  behind  which  the  man  was  concealed. 

She  had  reached  the  crest  of  the  ridge  in  advance 
of  Brannon;  she  now  stood  between  him  and  Den 
ver's  rifle.  And  though  she  was  in  the  grip  of 
an  icy  apprehension  lest  Denver  chance  a  shot 
at  Brannon's  head — which  rose,  it  seemed,  to  awful 
heights  over  hers — she  again  grasped  Brannon  by 
an  arm,  and  with  her  free  hand  contrived  to  wave 
at  Lattimer.  That  movement,  she  hoped,  would 
confuse  Denver,  who  might  possibly  withhold  his 
murderous  bullet,  to  await  further  orders  from 
Lattimer. 

That  order  was  given,  she  knew.  For  her  gaze, 
directed  at  Lattimer  with  an  intensity  that  seemed 
to  foreshorten  distance,  was  upon  his  lips.  She 
saw  his  lips  move;  saw  him,  as  though  in  surprise, 
raise  a  hand  and  move  it  as  though  in  half-hearted 
reply  to  her  signal. 

And  now  she  was  fearful  that  Brannon  would  be 
come  suspicious  if  she  delayed.  So  she  smilingly 


WEST !  301 

jerked  at  his,  arm,  still  linked  with  hers,  and  said, 
with  just  the  hint  of  a  taunt  in  her  voice : 

"Coming?"' 

Brannon  did  not  reply;  though  arm  in  arm  they 
descended  the  ridge  and  reached  the  grass  level. 

Josephine's  legs  had  become  leaden  weights  that 
were  curiously  unstable.  All  feeling  had  left  them. 
The  distance  from  the  ridge  to  the  draw  seemed 
like  the  far-flung  reaches  of  a  continent.  Her 
nerves  were  singing,  her  heart  was  pounding;  there 
was  no  breath  in  her  body. 

But  she  did  not  relax  her  grip  on  Brannon's  arm. 
Over  all  the  irregularities  of  the  ground;  down 
through  the  deep  sand  of  the  draw,  she  manoeuvered 
to  keep  herself  always  between  Brannon  and  the 
muzzle  of  Denver's  rifle. 

And  when  at  lest  she  and  Brannon  halted  within 
two  or  three  steps  of  Lattimer,  she  smiled  brightly 
at  Lattimer  and  said  distinctly: 

"Lattimer,  I  have  just  told  Mr.  Brannon  that  I 
am  going  with  you  to  Panya  Cache  to  become  your 
wife.  Ben  Whitman  told  Brannon  that  you  were 
taking  me  to  the  cache  against  my  will !  Is  n't 
that  ridiculous  ?" 

Lattimer  had  watched  the  approach  of  Brannon 
and  Josephine  with  puzzled,  frowning  eyes  which 
had  held  a  gleam  of  suspicion.  Josephine's  manner 
had  given  him  a  feeling  that  in  some  miraculous 


302  WEST ! 

way  she  had  arranged  for  a  peaceful  meeting  be 
tween  himself  and  Brannon;  and  he  had  given 
Denver  a  signal  to  withhold  his  fire. 

It  was  plain  to  him  now  from  the  way  Josephine 
had  managed  it;  and,  quick  to  adapt  himself  to  the 
new  situation,  he  grinned  with  an  appearance  of 
cordiality,  though  there  was  mockery  and  triumph 
in  his  smiling,  watchful  eyes. 

"So  Whitman  didn't  die,  after  all?"  he  said,  his 
gaze  on  Brannon. 

"No,"  said  Brannon,  shortly. 

"Whitman  wouldn't  even  have  been  shot  if — if 
he  had  n't  interfered,"  said  Josephine  quickly,  afraid 
that  Lattimer  might  contradict  the  story  she  had 
told  Brannon.  "Is  n't  it  odd  that  Whitman  should 
have  had  the  notion  that  you  were  taking  me  against 
my  will,  Lattimer?"  She  deliberately  winked  at 
the  man. 

"Yes,  odd,"  said  Lattimer.  His  eyes  were  now 
upon  Josephine's;  they  were  gleaming  with  admira 
tion  and  relief.  She  had  convinced  him. 

Josephine  released  Brannon's  arm  and  patted  him 
lightly,  lingeringly,  on  the  shoulder. 

She  had  succeeded.  The  sacrifice  would  be  made. 
Brannon  was  saved.  She  knew,  now,  that  Denver 
would  not  use  the  rifle;  and  she  was  eager  to  send 
Brannon  away,  to  have  it  over. 

"You  '11  go  now,  won't  you,  Brannon?"  she  said, 
smiling  into  his  eyes.  "Tell  Betty — " 


WEST!  303 

She  screamed  as  Brannon  moved.  She  felt  one 
of  Brannon's  hands  against  her  shoulder.  She 
reeled  from  his  violent  shove,  turned  sidewise  as 
she  fell,  and  landed  on  her  back  in  the  sand,  fully 
a  dozen  feet  from  Brannon. 

But  she  did  not  take  her  gaze  from  Brannon  even 
while  falling;  her  tense  muscles  had  made  her  body 
resistant,  and  she  had  gone  down  slowly,  so  that 
every  move  Brannon  made  was  photographed  for 
all  time  in  her  brain. 

He  leaped  backward  as  he  pushed  her  from  him; 
his  right  hand  had  leaped  to  the  holster  at  his  right 
hip.  The  hand  flashed  back  again,  was  flung  up 
ward,  spouting  smoke  and  fire.  The  roar  of  his 
six-shooter  was  blended  with  the  vicious,  snapping 
report  of  a  rifle — Denver's — its  smoke  streaking 
from  the  side  of  the  boulder  on  the  crest  of  the 
draw. 

Brannon  sent  one  shot  upward;  his  pistol  hand 
moving  as  though  he  had  merely  tossed  the  leaden 
missile  at  Denver.  The  weapon  swung  down  again, 
was  snapped  to  a  level;  smoke  and  fire  leaping 
in  continuous  lance-like  streaks  toward  Lattimer, 
who  had  got  his  gun  out  and  was  trying  to  snap 
a  shot  at  Brannon. 

Lattimer s  weapon  went  off;  but  the  already 
deadened  arm  had  no  control  over  it,  and  slipped 
from  his  loosening  fingers  and  fell  soundlessly  into 
the  sand. 


304  WEST ! 

So  rapid  had  been  Brannon's  movement  that 
the  girl  was  certain  Lattimer  and  Denver  fell  simul 
taneously.  At  least  so  it  seemed  to  her  strained 
and  horrified  senses. 

While  Lattimer,  his  glazed  eyes  expressing  a  sort 
of  dazed  astonishment,  was  sagging  oddly  forward, 
going  slowly  to  his  knees,  Denver,  on  the  crest 
of  the  draw,  was  toppling  inertly  forward.  He  slid 
gently  down  the  sand  slope  and  lay  in  a  huddled  heap 
at  its  base;  while  Lattimer,  seeming  to  have  de 
liberately  selected  a  spot  in  which  to  die,  dropped 
to  it  slowly  and  stretched  out  as  though  going  to 
sleep. 

In  the  weird,  deep  silence  following,  Brannon 
stood,  looking  somberly  from  one  to  the  other  of 
his  fallen  enemies.  Neither  moved,  and  Josephine 
knew  it  was  over. 

Brannon  said  nothing.  He  did  not  even  look  at 
her.  So  she  got  up,  eager  to  get  away  from  the 
spot,  and  made  her  way  to  the  little  grass  level  near 
the  ridge.  There  she  sank  into  a  heap  and  cried  over 
the  horror  she  had  witnessed ;  though  she  knew  there 
had  been  justification  for  it  all. 

She  must  have  fainted.  For  when  she  opened  her 
eyes  after  an  interminable  time  she  saw  Brannon 
on  the  crest  of  the  ridge  near  her. 

Dusk  had  fallen.  The  land  looked  gray  and  dead 
and  the  sky  was  faintly  blue  and  dotted  with  stars. 
She  got  up. 


WEST !  305 

Brannon  heard  her  and  came  down  to  where  she 
stood,  watching  her  with  level  eyes. 

"Somebody 's  coming,"  he  said.  "From  the 
north.  Most  likely  it 's  Cole  Meeder  and  some 
of  the  Star  men.  What  are  you  going  to  say  to 
them?  Are  you  going  to  tell  them  the  lie  you 
told  me,  that  you  went  with  Lattimer  willingly?" 

"You  knew?"  she  said,  astonished.  "You  knew 
I— I  lied?" 

He  laughed  softly. 

"Denver  and  Lattimer  forgot  one  thing,"  he  said. 
"It  was  that  I  had  eyes.  From  where  I  was  riding 
some  time  before  you  came  to  meet  me,  I  could  see 
the  top  of  the  draw.  I  saw  Denver  climb  it; 
watched  where  he  was  hidden.  Besides,  even  if  I 
had  n't  seen  him,  I — "  He  paused,  placed  both 
hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
in  which  there  was  mingled  reproach  and  admira 
tion. 

"You  don't  lie  convincingly,  Jo,"  he  said;  "you 
have  n't  practised  it  enough.  But  it  was  a  mighty 
fine  thing  you  did — a  mighty  fine  thing!" 

She  cried  softly. 

Later  he  led  her  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge  where, 
with  the  shadows  deepening  around  them,  they 
watched  Cole  Meeder  and  the  other  Star  men  ride 
toward  them. 


CHAPTER     XXXIV 

AS  on  another  day  Josephine  sat  in  a  comfort 
able  rocker  on  the  veranda  of  the  Triangle 
L  ranch-house,  contemplatively  gazing  out  into  the 
vast  reaches  of  the  big  basin. 

With  the  majesty  of  peace  in  her  soul  she  could 
permit  her  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  the  past  with 
some  degree  of  satisfaction;  for  if  they  had  done 
nothing  more,  her  experiences  in  this  grim  country 
had  fixed  upon  her  senses  a  conviction  that  one 
could  not,  at  a  stroke,  alter  one's  nature  so  that 
it  would  fit  snugly  into  a  new  environment. 

Closing  her  eyes  and  reviewing  her  experiences 
from  the  beginning,  when  she  had  first  looked  into 
Brannon's  eyes  there  beside  the  railroad  track,  until 
that  other  time,  three  days  ago,  when  she  had  again 
looked  into  Brannon's  eyes  as  they  both  stood  on  the 
ridge  and  watched  the  Star  men  riding  toward  them, 
she  saw  that  the  rules  of  life  as  she  had  known 
them  were  not  elastic  enough  to  stretch  across  the 
continent  to  this  wilderness. 

She  felt  that  Brannon  typified  the  West,  as  she 
was  representative  of  the  East.  She  had  heard 
people  say  that  human  nature  is  the  same  all  over 
the  world,  and  though  she  was  not  prepared  to 

306 


WEST !  307 

quarrel  with  that  conclusion  she  was  convinced  that 
it  had  not  been  carried  far  enough.  It  should  have 
been  amended  to  include  something  regarding  en 
vironment. 

Brannon,  for  example,  had  lived  all  his  life  in 
the  West.  She  remembered  Betty's  saying  he  was 
a  descendant  of  Boone,  which  indicated  that  where 
the  wilderness  reigned  he  was  at  home.  Would  he 
be  the  same  Brannon  if  suddenly  he  were  set  down 
in  the  very  center  of  civilization? 

Josephine  thought  he  would  not  be  the  same. 
Perhaps  he  would  be  as  inflexible,  and  perhaps  his 
impulses  would  be  as  violent.  But  before  the  rigid 
laws  of  her  country  his  inflexibility  would  be  shat 
tered  and  his  impulses  would  have  to  be  sternly 
guarded.  The  law  would  not  be  in  his  hands,  but 
in  the  collective  hands  of  all  the  people,  to  be  admin 
istered  by  one  of  their  own  selection. 

Therefore  he  would  not  be  the  same  Brannon. 

At  any  rate,  East  or  West,  she  would  be  afraid 
of  him.  In  the  beginning  she  had  fought  against 
him,  believing  she  hated  him.  Now  she  realized 
that  the  thing  she  had  fought  was  merely  the  spell 
of  the  romance  that  had  seemed  to  surround  him. 
Since  she  had  seen  him  kill  Lattimer  and  Denver 
the  bubble  of  romance  had  been  shattered.  She 
did  n't  love  him ;  she  did  not  even  like  him ;  though 
she  admired  him  for  his  rugged  mental  strength, 
and  for  the  iron  control  that  he  had  demonstrated 


3o8  WEST ! 

so  convincingly  on  the  day  he  had  faced  Denver's 
rifle.  "Steel"  Brannon!  She  would  always  re 
member  him — that  was  certain! 

She  saw  him  coming  now,  riding  toward  her 
across  a  level  sweep  of  plain  northward.  She 
watched  him,  noting  the  graceful  ease  of  him  in 
the  saddle;  felt  again  the  romance  of  him. 

But  she  smilingly  shook  her  head  and  thought  of 
a  certain  Eastern  man  who  would  have  looked  ask 
ance  upon  chaps  and  spurs. 

Brannon  came  on,  brought  the  black  horse  to  a 
halt  at  the  edge  of  the  veranda,  and  twisted  sidewise 
in  the  saddle.  His  smile  was  broad,  friendly — 
nothing  more. 

"So  you  're  leaving  us?"  he  said.  "I  just  heard 
it  from  one  of  the  men.  I  rode  in  to  say  good-by." 

"Twenty  miles?"  she  said,  referring  to  the  dis 
tance  he  had  ridden.  She  had  heard  Betty  mention 
it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  eying  her  gravely;  "you  would  n't 
want  me  to  miss  saying  good-by  to  you?" 

She  laughed  lightly  at  the  reproof  in  his  voice. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  be  glad  when  I  am  gone," 
she  said,  watching  him  keenly. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  his  eyes  flashing,  "you  've  been 
mighty  interesting." 

"Brannon,"  she  said — for  now  that  she  was  about 
to  leave  she  wanted  to  be  sure  he  had  no  regrets, 
for  she  remembered  the  night  he  had  placed  a  hand 


WEST !  309 

on  her  head  with  a  touch  that  had  been  almost  a 
caress,  "are  you  sure  you  have  found  me  merely — 
interesting?" 

"I  think  that  is  all,  Miss  Hamilton — just  interest 
ing,"  he  said,  steadily  regarding  her.  "You  see, 
hating  me  as  you  do — " 

"Did,"  she  corrected. 

"As  you  did,"  he  amended  with  a  smile,  "I  did  n't 
presume  to — " 

"Brannon,"  she  interrupted,  "is  it  Betty?" 

His  eyes  quickened;  he  flushed.  But  his  voice 
was  steady. 

"I  reckon  it 's  Betty,"  he  said.  And  then  for  the 
first  time  since  she  had  known  him,  she  got  a  glimpse 
of  the  gentle,  human  side  of  his  character.  The 
blush  suffused  his  face;  his  steady  eyes  wavered, 
held  an  abashed  gleam. 

"If  she  '11  have  me,"  he  added. 

Josephine's  eyes  were  eloquent  with  secret  knowl 
edge.  She  smiled  complacently. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  her,  Brannon?"  she  said, 
gently. 

"I  'm  thinking  of  it,"  he  said,  soberly.  "I  've 
been  thinking  of  it  for  two  years.  You  see,  Betty 
don't  seem  to  give  me  any  encouragement." 

"She  won't  run  after  you,  Brannon !" 

"That's  so!"  he  said,  admiration  over  Betty's 
sterling  qualities  glinting  his  eyes.  "She  certainly 
is  a  hummer,  is  n't  she,  Miss  Hamilton?" 


3io  WEST! 

"If  I  were  a  man  I  should  think  her  very  desirable, 
Brannon,"  she  smiled.  "Also,"  she  added  dryly, 
"I  should  be  afraid  that  some  other  man  would 
come  along  and  speak  to  her  before  I  got  a  chance. 
And  I  think  you  have  a  chance,  Brannon !" 

He  was  grateful,  and  boyishly  elated;  and  he 
gave  her  a  glance  that  made  her  pulses  leap,  that 
gave  her  a  hint  of  how  much  she  would  have  re 
gretted  leaving  him  if  fate  had  willed  that  things 
were  to  be  otherwise. 

But  the  emotion  passed  quickly.  In  the  next  in 
stant  she  was  shaking  hands  with  him,  for  he  had 
got  off  his  horse  to  say  farewell. 

"You're  leaving  on  the  five  o'clock,  I  reckon?'* 
he  said. 

"Lin  Murray  is  hitching  up  the  horses,  now,"  she 
answered.  "I  shall  leave  here  inside  of  ten  min 
utes." 

"Betty  's  going  with  you  as  far  as  Willets  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  '11  say  good-by  in 
town.  There's  times  when  Lin  Murray  is  n't  re 
liable." 

He  left  her  and  walked  toward  the  corral,  where 
Lin  Murray  was  hitching  the  horses  to  the  buck- 
board. 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  the  buckboard  whirled 
up  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda.  Brannon  was  alone 
in  the  driver's  seat.  His  face  was  set  stoically. 


WEST!  311 

Josephine  had  gone  into  the  house  to  get  her 
things ;  and  when  Betty  came  out  Josephine  was  di 
rectly  behind  her. 

Betty  was  half-way  across  the  gallery  before  she 
saw  Brannon,  lounging  unconcernedly  in  the  buck- 
board. 

She  halted,  her  cheeks  crimson. 

"Brannon,"  she  said,  "where  is  Murray?  I  told 
him  he  was  to  drive  us  to  town !" 

"Murray  's  sick,"  he  returned  quietly,  not  meeting 
her  gaze.  "Lucky  I  came  in,  was  n't  it?"  he  added, 
now  turning  to  look  at  her ;  whereat  the  flame  deep 
ened  in  her  cheeks.  "You  'd  have  had  to  drive 
home  alone." 

Betty  might  have  been  alone  for  the  first  few  miles 
of  the  return  trip  for  all  the  oral  evidence  she  had 
of  Brannon's  presence.  His  conversation  was 
limited  to  monosyllables  directed  at  the  horses  that 
loped  steadily  through  the  deepening  dusk. 

But  Betty  did  not  speak  more  than  Brannon;  for 
there  were  certain  regrets  that  made  the  hearts  of 
both  heavy — regret  that  a  young  woman  who  had 
come  West  with  ideals  had  remained  to  see  them 
destroyed  by  contact  with  the  type  of  man  who 
is  ever  present  in  all  communities — the  breaker  of 
laws. 

"She  should  n't  have  interfered  as  she  did, 
though,"  said  Brannon  suddenly,  voicing  a  thought. 

"No,"  said  Betty,  quite  as  though  she  were  taking 


312  WEST! 

up  the  thread  of  a  previous  conversation.  "That 
was  where  she  made  a  mistake." 

"Her  second  was  in  hating  me,"  said  Brannon. 
"I  tried—" 

"She  didn't,  Brannon!" 

"Didn't  what?" 

"She  did  n't  hate  you.  She  never  will !  Why, 
when  you  were  talking  to  her  on  the  veranda,  just 
before  we  left;  she  said — " 

"You  were  listening?"  he  charged.  He  leaned 
toward  her,  peering  at  her  through  the  deepening 
dusk,  to  see  that  her  cheeks  were  aflame. 

"I — I  could  n't  help  it,  Brannon,"  she  said.  "You 
see,  I  was  just  coming  out,  and  when  I  got  to — to — " 

She  paused,  curious  to  know  why  Brannon  had 
sighed  so  deeply. 

"Why  did  you  do  that,  Brannon?"  she  asked. 

"Tickled,"  he  returned.  "I  've  been  two  years 
trying  to  tell  you  what  I  told  her.  I  reckon  I  never 
would  have  had  the  courage  to  do  it." 

"But  you  must,  Brannon,"  she  whispered.  "I 
would  never  be  satisfied  to  know  that  you  told  an 
other  woman — even  though  I  heard — " 

With  no  hand  to  guide  them,  the  horses  finally 
came  to  a  halt  to  crop  the  sweet  grasses  that  grew 
beside  the  trail;  while  the  man  whose  courage  had 
earned  him  the  sobriquet  "Steel"  told  to  his  pre 
destined  mate  the  old,  old  story  which  is  always 
new;  which  is  the  same  to-day  and  to-morrow  and 
which  knows  no  North,  no  South,  no  East,  no  West. 


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